Fires Within Fires
by Pauline Dorchester
Summary: August & September, 1942: War corrupts everything it touches, leaving nothing whose appearance can be trusted – with one exception. (With this story - set just after 'Bad Blood,' and following up on "Please Remain Silent" - I move into AU/headcanon territory once and for all.)
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer** : Sam, Foyle _père et fils_ , Milner, Edith, Brooke, Dr Brindley, and a few minor characters whom I won't name here so as not to spoil the surprise are the creations of Anthony Horowitz. No profit is sought hereby, and no infringement of copyright is intended.

 **Caveat** : Every time I encounter someone who doesn't like _Foyle's War_ , I hear or read the same thing: "It's soooo sloooow!" A word to the wise, then: I've tried to recreate the experience of watching an episode here (albeit one without a major crime to be solved), and parts of this story are very leisurely. Also, if you're allergic to present-tense narrative, you might want to limit yourself to one chapter per day.

* * *

AUGUST 1942

Sam has lost track of the days but is sure that she has been in hospital for at least a week. No, says the day sister; today is the sixth day.

It is 12 August. She is out of danger.

That afternoon she is able to get out of bed and be pushed down the passage in an invalid's chair to Dr Brindley's consulting room. He tells her that she will have to remain here until every last scab has healed completely.

'Until then,' he explains, 'we have to take the precaution of assuming that you're contagious. So when you have visitors you mustn't touch them, nor let them touch you. If fact you should touch as few objects as you can. If you need to send any letters you can dictate them to one of the sisters. That's something you might want to do, by the by. I know that Sister Ashford has been a trifle concerned that no one from your family has been to see you.'

He tells her, as well, that she should tell her visitors only that she has been suffering from 'a bacterial infection – which is true,' he explains, 'but we don't want to risk creating a panic.'

He doesn't tell Sam what she's actually _had_ , however, and his manner, though courteous, forbids her from asking. She wonders if he actually knows.

Back in the ward Sam decides that she ought be more specific, so that with any luck she won't have to answer too many questions. Bronchitis doesn't usually involve dark grey sores on one's skin, but it _is_ a bacterial infection and it _can_ send one to hospital.

So that's what Sam tells Mrs Hardcastle, her landlady, and some of the other girls from the billet. And her parents, when she dictates a letter to them for Sister Ashford to write down. And, to her astonishment, Mrs Bradley, her commanding officer, who stays for two minutes and doesn't sit down, but does seem slightly less hostile than usual.

And Joe.

Joe has been to see her here before. She's _quite_ certain of that, although her memories of the first few days are hazy at best. She suspects that she was delirious the last time she saw him. She thought that he was somebody else.

 _Better not to think about that at all_ , she tells herself.

Mercifully, Joe doesn't mention this, but when she tells him that she has an answer now to the question he asked her before she fell ill, he seems to know what it will be. He takes it well.

Mr Foyle comes to see her as well, bringing newspapers and, once, a tin of pineapple. Milner visits two or three times – always just before Sister Ashford's shift ends, Sam observes. (He calls her Edith.) None of them feels any need to discuss why she's here.

* * *

On the morning of 17 August Sister Ashford escorts Sam back to Dr. Brindley's consulting room.

To Sam's surprise Mr Foyle and Milner are waiting there with him. Sister Ashford shuts the door behind them and remains standing there as though she were guarding it.

Dr Brindley tells Sam that when this conference – that is the word he uses – is completed Sister Ashford will examine her for any remaining unhealed sores. If there are none then it can be safely assumed that Sam is no longer contagious and she will be discharged. She is to convalesce for a fortnight and then he will examine her to see whether she is fit to go back to work. He has arranged for her to be on sick rations through the middle of September.

'Is there somewhere quiet, perhaps in the countryside, where you could go during that time, Miss Stewart?' Sister Ashford asks.

'I really think that I would be most comfortable at my billet,' Sam answers after a moment.

In fact that's the least of several possible evils. Visiting her parents so soon after this misadventure would be disastrous, Sam is certain, and for once a trip to Uncle Aubrey's wouldn't be much better.

Aunt Amy and Uncle Michael – _there's_ a pleasant idea, but they live a bit too far from Hastings for it to be a practical one, it seems to Sam.

'There's another matter that we must discuss,' Dr Brindley goes on, 'but before we can do so, we have to attend to _this_.' He opens a drawer in his desk and removes a folder. 'Each of you will need to sign one of these.'

'I've already done so,' Mr Foyle points out. 'More than once, in fact.'

'So have I,' Milner adds.

'I'm afraid that's immaterial,' says Dr Brindley.

' _I_ haven't,' Sam says, although she has no idea what she is being asked to sign.

Sister Ashford, who seems to have been expecting this, says nothing and signs one of the papers with a small frown.

The paper turns out to be a copy of the Official Secrets Act. Having been advised at some point by one relation or another never to sign anything without reading it first, Sam starts to do so. She is only part of the way through when Mr Foyle interrupts her.

'Signing it is merely symbolic, Sam,' he tells her. 'It's a _law_ , and it applies to everyone whether they've signed it or not.'

'Now then, Miss Stewart,' Dr Brindley says, after they have each signed a paper and he has collected them, 'the illness that brought you here was cutaneous anthrax, resulting from your accidental exposure to an Army Intelligence experiment gone awry. Thus, it's been necessary to report this incident to the Defence Ministry, and all records of it are protected under the law that you've just signed.'

Sam looks confused; Mr Foyle looks resigned; Edith looks disgusted. None of them says anything.

'For practical purposes, Doctor, what does that mean?' Milner asks.

'Well, if Miss Stewart were to request a look at the hospital's file on her case, for example, I'd have to refuse.'

'How long will this remain in effect?' Mr Foyle asks.

'Until the Official Secrets Act expires, I would imagine,' Dr Brindley tells him. '"Indefinitely" would be another way of putting it. If it's of any consolation to you, Miss Stewart, you're being treated in _exactly_ the same manner as servicemen injured in the course of certain types of training exercises.'

'Well, Sam, there you are,' says Mr Foyle, with a small, tight smile. 'Didn't you tell me once that when the war began you wanted to join the WAAF?'

'However, this raises another point,' the doctor continues. 'When I instructed Miss Stewart to tell visitors that she's simply had an infection, I was concerned not only about avoiding a violation of the law, but also with preserving public calm. All by itself, though, "an infection" is too vague an explanation for general use. We need to come up with something more specific.'

'I've told several people that I've had bronchitis,' Sam replies at once, 'but I rather think pneumonia would be more convincing. With bronchitis one doesn't need to be taken to hospital unless it's _very_ serious, but with pneumonia the patient _always_ needs hospital care. And one _can_ get pneumonia at this time of year, even if it _is_ more common in winter.'

'How do you happen to know _that_ , Sam?' asks Milner.

'My mother has had bronchitis three times that I can remember, and pneumonia twice,' Sam explains matter-of-factly, ignoring first the annoyed expression that Mr Foyle shoots at Milner and then a round of startled looks from everyone in the room. 'She only had to go into hospital with _one_ case of bronchitis – the second time – but _both_ times when she had pneumonia. And of course bronchitis can turn _into_ pneumonia. So you see it's really quite _plausible_.'

'Well, _I_ was going to suggest staphylococcus,' Dr Brindley says, 'but now that you suggest it, pneumonia sounds like a good idea – not _literally_ , to be sure, but in _this_ context! Very well, then, we'll say that you're convalescing from bacterial pneumonia. Your hospital record, of course, won't be altered.'

'Not that it matters, in this case,' Mr Foyle says, irritably.

Sam is discharged that afternoon.

* * *

Dr. Brindley has told Sam to do as little as possible over the next fortnight. She tries to comply. A friend volunteers to go round to the shops for her so that Sam won't have to queue.

On 20 August Sam visits the Hastings Library, where she searches the card file for a book that might tell her more about what sickened her.

She finds one – the fifth volume of _A System of Bacteriology in Relation to Medicine_. She is not permitted to charge it out, only to look at it in the reading room. The librarian asks her why she wants to see it.

'Are you a nurse? Are you studying nursing?' she wants to know.

Sam is tempted to say that she is, but decides to be cautious and stay closer to the truth.

'No, but I'm sometimes called upon to administer first aid as part of my job and I'm trying to learn how to recognise signs of illness or infection in injured people.'

The woman accepts this, but searches Sam's haversack for writing materials, which she tells Sam she can have back when she returns the book.

Sam wishes for more schooling or perhaps just a dictionary, but by the time she is finished she knows what anthrax is and understands that she has actually been quite lucky: had she inhaled the bacteria rather than absorbing it through that scratch on her wrist she would have died before being able to get herself to the hospital.

She also understands why she, or anyone else, is being prevented from making any notes on the subject.

The librarian looks at Sam's signature when Sam hands the book back to her.

'Detective fiction, the R.A.F., bacterial agents – your interests are quite wide-ranging, aren't they, Miss Stewart?'

* * *

On the afternoon of 22 August there is an air raid, the first that Hastings has seen in several months. No bombs fall near Mrs Harcastle's and the whole experience strikes Sam as dull.

The next day she learns, with a guilty pang, that the bombs fell around the East Hill and northeast of town, where Joe and his comrades-at-arms are billeted. Three dozen people have been injured and nearly as many have lost their homes.

By the middle of the second week she is climbing the walls.

On 26 August Dr Brindley's secretary telephones Mrs Hardcastle's and tells Sam that the doctor would like to see her tomorrow at five o'clock in the afternoon.

* * *

Thursday, 27 August 1942  
 _Have just returned from appointment with Dr Brindley at hospital – told me to_ _rest_ _tomorrow and during week-end, but can go back to work on Monday! Huzzah! A bit late now, don't quite know about telephoning Mr F at home so will call station tomorrow morning.  
Noticed Dr B seemed preoccupied. Rather odd – due to late hour? Saw me after teatime, probably wanted to go home for the night. _

* * *

**Author's notes:  
** I am presenting abbreviations in this story according to the way I have heard them said aloud: for example, WAAF seems to be most often pronounced as a word, while R.A.F. and A.T.S. are pronounced as letters. MTC, on the other hand, can't be pronounced as a word, so it seems to need no punctuation.

 _A System of Bacteriology in Relation to Medicine_ is a nine-volume work by the Medical Research Council of Great Britain; it was published by His Majesty's Stationery Office (London) over a three-year period beginning in 1929. Pages 439-478 of volume 5 give a detailed description of what was known about anthrax at the time, including options for treatment of anthrax in humans, but unfortunately the book doesn't deal with convalescence or recovery. What you'll be reading here on that subject, therefore, is my own speculation.

Nathan Dylan Goodwin, in _Hastings at War, 1939-1945_ (Andover, England: Phillimore, 2005), mentions an air raid there on 22 August 1942 that led to 36 casualties and the destruction of eight houses in the city's East Hill area. He quotes a survivor whose recollections imply that the attack took place during the daylight hours, but I have been unable to find any further details.


	2. Chapter 2

FRIDAY 28 AUGUST

AIRBASE DEBDEN

The ground has opened up and swallowed him.

Or perhaps it only feels that way.

 _Or perhaps I just wish that it would_ , he thinks.

Like everyone else here, Andrew has known for weeks that they are all to be transferred quite soon – the base is being handed over to the U.S. Army Air Force. They have been waiting to hear where each squadron will go. Andrew's only fear has been that Group Captain Galloway, a petty tyrant with ideas about honour, duty and toughness that can best be described as peculiar, will still be his commanding officer at his new post.

But Galloway has just announced that 605 Squadron is being moved to Hastings. Andrew and the other two instructors will go with it.

'I suppose the two of you are aware,' Galloway goes on, turning toward Wing Commander Palgrave and Flight Lieutenant Chatto, 'that Foyle here not only began his war service with several months of flying ops out of Hastings, but has the advantage of being a native. Your father is a policeman there, isn't he, Foyle?'

'Yes, sir, that's correct. Detective Chief Superintendent,' says Andrew.

'I'm sure you'll be pleased to hear that Wing Commander Turner is still the commanding officer at R.A.F. Hastings. I wonder what words of wisdom you can share with your colleagues, Foyle?'

'Well, to begin with,' says Andrew, turning to the others, 'it's definitely excellent news that Wing Commander Turner is still there. He's a superb officer and a very good man and it really was an honour to serve under him.'

 _No need to dissemble about that, at least_.

'And of course, Debden and Hastings, that's apples and oranges,' he goes on, grinning a bit in spite of himself. 'I suppose that's actually something we should bear in mind, as instructors. There are more opportunities for recreation in Hastings than there are here, which will surely be a benefit to our pupils, but there are also many more distractions. And in fact, if I am being given permission to speak freely, sir... ' He looks at his commanding officer, who is now frowning but nods assent.

'Well, I have to say that I do hope Command have given serious thought to the _size_ of the Hastings base,' Andrew continues.

He chooses his words with caution now. He will have to be very careful not to give himself away. Being sent back to Hastings is the last thing he expected, and is fraught with problems – _or, more accurately, with one overwhelming problem_ , he thinks.

'It makes the Debden base look quite vast by comparison, and it was already overcrowded when I was transferred here. I know that many bases are being expanded to accommodate a larger fighting force, but as you say, sir, my father lives in Hastings, and I think he would have told me if that were happening there.'

His father's recent letters have actually been quite terse, written only in response to his own, now that Andrew has been given a release to resume writing them. He has even begun to wonder whether he has put a foot wrong somehow.

 _Idiot,_ Andrew thinks. _Bleeding idiot. Yes, I_ did _do something wrong, not to say profoundly stupid, and Dad will have figured that out by now. That's if Sam hasn't told him herself._

He's been wondering about this. His father hasn't so much as mentioned her since April, not even in passing.

Andrew waits for Galloway to cut him off but it doesn't happen, so he says the next thing that occurs to him.

'Hastings isn't precisely out of harm's way, either. It's only fifty miles across the Channel to France, so it's an easy target, and of course it's a very important city to the whole country because of its place in history, and the Jerrys know all that. There've been more than enough air raids in Hastings. They haven't only targeted the base. There was a raid there only last week. And -'

He is laying it on too thick now. The three other men, he realizes, are looking at him as though he were slightly mad. _I wonder if I am._

'Yes, well,' Galloway said abruptly, 'forewarned is forearmed, isn't it? Dismissed!'

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

'Foyle, I do hope you'll make good use of your pre-transfer leave,' says Palgrave, when they are out of Galloway's earshot. 'You seem like a chap who could use some of what the Yanks call R&R. You catch my drift, I'm sure.'

Chatto manages to be both less vulgar and more direct, once Palgrave has gone.

'You never talk anymore about that girl of yours in Hastings,' he observes.

'No,' Andrew admits. _I wouldn't dare._

'When you got here you couldn't seem to _stop_ talking about her,' Chatto goes on.

Andrew likes Chatto, but not enough to confide in him, he decides.

'There are wheels within wheels,' is all he says.

* * *

HASTINGS

 _Not in a good mood,_ is Milner's first thought as he sits down on one of the visitors' chairs in Foyle's office. His boss is looking through the contents of a file folder that lies open on his desk. Foyle's brows are knitted and his mouth is tight.

'Sir?' Milner ventures after a moment.

'What? Oh. Sorry. Bit too much going on all at once this morning. I've just had three telephone calls from departments to the west of us. There's been a rash of burglaries. Portable typewriters have been taken from a solicitor's office in Littlehampton and a surgery in Eastbourne. They were both Hermes models, manufactured in Switzerland before the war and widely exported. A firm in Brighton that resells business equipment was also burglarized – they lost something called a book typewriter.'

'What's that, I wonder?'

'I'd never heard of it, either, until this morning. Apparently it allows one to type directly into a blank book. A pretty large machine, it seems – not especially portable.'

'Something that would take two people to move, then.'

'Precisely. I'll need you to find out if there's anything more that we ought to know. There also seems to have been an attempt to break into a stationers' shop in Brighton last night,' Mr Foyle went on. 'A Civil Defence warden put a stop to that, but couldn't provide much of a description.'

'Paper's in short supply, there's a demand for it on the black market, so that's not really surprising,' Milner observes. 'But why typewriters, I wonder?'

'Hard to say,' Foyle agrees. 'I've also heard from Hilda Pierce this morning. That name ring a bell? I can't recall whether you've had the _pleasure_ of meeting her.'

'Only once or twice, sir, and then quite briefly, but I know who she is.' _No wonder he looks out of sorts_ , Milner thinks.

'She was _very_ eager to remind me that the anthrax experiment, and the test on the Foxhall Farm cattle, are covered by the Official Secrets Act, which of course we _knew_ , and that while the S.O.E. weren't directly involved – so _she_ says – they _do_ have an interest, effective as of _now_ , in keeping it as quiet as possible.'

'Meaning that we can't discuss Sam's absence, or the real reason for it, with anyone who doesn't know about it already.'

'Precisely.'

'Well, as you say, sir, we already know the lay of the land as far as _that_ situation is concerned. But I've been wondering how this is going to work,' Milner admits. 'I can ask E... Miss Ashford, I mean, I can always her to be careful about discussing the case with anyone, which I'm sure she'd do anyway, but by now most of the hospital staff _must_ know that there were two anthrax patients there this month. And I'm not certain how many people in this department actually know why Sam's been gone.'

'That's what I _tried_ to explain to Miss Pierce! _She_ seems to feel that the department should've realized from the first that there would be a connection to the S.O.E. The thing to do now is to keep the information from spreading, she said.'

'On that subject, sir, any word on Sam coming back to work?'

 _'_ Sam telephoned this morning as well. Told me that Dr Brindley has cleared her to come back on Monday. I confirmed that with Dr Brindley myself, but _he_ says in addition that she's not to exert herself for at least a fortnight – no long drives, no going out in heavy weather, no driving during blackout hours if possible. We'll need to keep her busy here.'

'I'll arrange to have a constable available as a stand-by driver.'

'Thank you.'

'The S.O.E. are casting a pretty wide net these days, aren't they, sir?'

'Yes. Disturbingly so.'

* * *

SATURDAY 29 AUGUST

' _Please_ , Edith, keep your voice down! This is _strictly_ in confidence.'

She is in high dudgeon; Milner has not seen her so infuriated since someone accused someone else of cheating at yet a third person's card party, and that must be twelve years ago now.

The din in the Plume of Feathers, he had thought, would serve as a cover for their conversation, but it has only tricked both of them into shouting.

'Of course, Paul, you're right. I'm sorry,' says Edith, more quietly now. 'But _honestly_ , this feels a bit like the last straw.'

'What do you mean?'

'Until this month, you see, I'd never actually _seen_ an-'

' _Edith_.'

'- _any_ cases of _that type_ , which _is_ what I was _going_ to say, Paul,' Edith goes on.

'Sorry.'

'But I _do_ know a few things about infectious diseases.'

'I'm sure you know a great deal!'

'What Miss Stewart has had, it's not that quick to recover from. She ought to convalesce for at _least_ another week. A fortnight would be better. She's out of danger, and a relapse is quite unlikely, but she could be quite vulnerable for a while to anything else that might be spreading 'round. A month's convalescence would be standard, really.' Edith sums up.

'Mr. Foyle told me that Sam telephoned first thing yesterday morning to say that Dr. Brindley told her she could come back to work on Monday, and that he telephoned Dr. Brindley himself to confirm it,' Milner recalls.

'Did he? Why? Doesn't he trust her?'

'She's probably been champing at the bit, and perhaps he wanted to make sure she wasn't just... being over-eager,' Milner says. "Dr. Brindley did tell Mr. Foyle that Sam's to take it easy for a while – no strenuous duty of any kind – which _she_ apparently _didn't_ say.'

'I still don't understand why he would allow it at all,' says Edith, almost to herself.

'Do you think he's a good doctor?'

'Oh, yes, no question about _that_! That's what makes this so strange!'

'When did he last see her?'

'Thursday, late in the afternoon. So if she told anyone on Friday that he's letting her go back to work, that's when he must have told her that she could. Please _do_ be careful that she doesn't get worn out, Paul. And I know that Dr. Brindley arranged for her to be on sick rations until the middle of September, so please make sure that she eats enough.'

'Well,' Milner says, laughing now, 'this is Sam Stewart we're discussing, so getting her to eat should be no problem at all. The first part is going to be quite a challenge, though – if she thinks she's being kept idle she'll be miserable, and probably quite annoyed.'

'I'll tell you something, though,' Edith goes on. 'It might be just a coincidence, of course, but a strange thing happened Thursday morning, just after I began my shift. Dr Brindley had a visitor in his consulting room – I assumed at first she was a patient, but he didn't examine her. I _know_ he didn't, because he didn't close the door all the way, not at first.'

'Someone from his family, perhaps.'

'No, I don't think so. I definitely heard him call her "Miss" something-or-other, and they didn't seem... _cordial_. She might have been someone from a patient's family, though – that's possible. I had to pass by his door a couple of times before he finally _did_ close it – I was preparing the morning dosages for my ward – and it sounded as though they were having some sort of argument _about_ a patient. She complained that someone had been discharged too quickly, and Dr Brindley said that it couldn't be avoided, she was no longer contagious and her bed was needed. And then his visitor said that in that case, it was essential to make things look as normal as possible.'

'The discharged patient was a woman?'

'They both said "she" and "her," yes. Definitely.'

'And Dr Brindley's visitor was also a woman?'

'Yes.'

'You didn't catch her name, by any chance?'

'Aren't you meant to be off-duty at this hour, Paul Milner? No – if I did, I've forgotten it. I'm sorry.'

'No, _I'm_ sorry, Edith, it's just that -'

'It was one syllable, though – I'm almost _sure_ of that,' Edith adds suddenly. 'A one-syllable name.'

Milner is silent for a moment. He doesn't like the idea that has just occurred to him.

'Let's talk about something else,' he says at last.

* * *

'Hello, Dad.'

'Andrew? Good to hear you.'

'I can't talk for long – there's a queue for this call-box – but I have some news.'

* * *

 **Author's notes:  
** It is an historical fact that the R.A.F. transferred the airbase in Debden, Essex, to the U.S. Army Air Force in September 1942 (the 12th according to Wikipedia; the 29th according to the website of the 4th Fighter Group Association). The U.S.A.A.F. remained there until September 1945.

As far as I have been able to determine, it is also an historical fact that there has never been an R.A.F. base in or adjacent to Hastings. I have therefore felt free to create a completely imaginary base with a completely imaginary history and geography.

 _R &R_ is military – and perhaps especially male American military – shorthand for _rest and recreation_. During the World War II era, at least, the term seems to have been generally understood to include the use of prostitutes.

The great British humorist P.G. Wodehouse was very fond of the expression _there are wheels within wheels_ (meaning _this situation is more complex than it may appear_ ) _._ The earliest written use of it that I've been able to find anywhere is in his story _The Great Sermon Handicap_ (1922): "I have lent him the manuscript at his urgent desire, for, between ourselves, there are wheels within wheels." It shows up in many other places in his work as well. Famously, but in a very different mood and context, the American playwright Arthur Miller used the same phrase in _The Crucible_ (1953): _"There are wheels within wheels in this village, and fires within fires!"_


	3. Chapter 3

MONDAY 31 AUGUST

NORTH-WESTERN ESSEX

Andrew leaves Debden just after the blackout ends for the day, without even going to the mess for breakfast. He will eat on the way to Hastings, he decides. He hitches a ride to the motor coach station, where he finds the canteen all but stripped bare but does manage to get a seat on the 8.15 to Victoria.

* * *

HASTINGS

 _8.00 a.m. – Twenty-three years old today. Best possible birthday gift – I go back to work today! Very glad today is Monday, as well – makes it feel all the more like starting new chapter and putting past few months behind me. (Mixed metaphor? Ought to avoid.)_

* * *

'There are some things I need to warn you about before either of us goes in there,' Mr Foyle begins, after Sam has pulled the Wolseley up in front of the police station, 'and I'm afraid you're _not_ going to enjoy hearing _any_ of this.'

Sam protests Brindley's strictures just as fiercely as Foyle expects her to do.

'He _did_ tell me the same thing,' she admits, 'but honestly, sir, I feel _fine!_ This is _absolutely_ unnecessary.'

'I think we should let Dr Brindley be the judge of that, Sam. You were close enough to dying that I was starting to think about what I was going to say to your family. That was only a fortnight ago. There's no point in taking chances, is there?'

'Oh, well, I suppose not,' Sam sighs. 'How long will this go _on_ , though?'

'Let's say through Friday to begin with. No debates,' Mr Foyle goes on in a warning tone. 'The second thing I need to tell you is that Dr Brindley _isn't_ the only person who's had something to say about your illness. I heard from Miss Pierce on Friday. It seems that – and please don't ask me to explain _how_ this was done, because I've _no_ idea – in addition to being carried out by Army Intelligence, and therefore classified to _begin_ with, the experiment that led to your contracting anthrax has only _last_ _week_ been brought under the aegis of the Special Operations Executive, and so it's now covered even _more_ thoroughly by the Official Secrets Act.'

'All the better, then, that I've told some people that I had bronchitis and will tell everyone else that it was pneumonia!' Sam says excitedly. 'If no one is meant to know what I _really_ had, then it would be good to create some _confusion_ about it. Miss Pierce would approve of that, don't you think?'

'Hilda Pierce has caused sufficient trouble for this department that I'm not sure we need to concern ourselves with what she would or wouldn't approve of,' Mr Foyle responds, with some heat.

Even so, Sam thinks that he looks rather impressed.

'The third thing,' he goes on, and then stops suddenly.

'Well, look,' he begins again. 'You can do whatever you want to with this news. Or do nothing at all with it. It's no business of mine,' he tells Sam, finally saying aloud the words he has been repeating to himself since Friday night. 'But I think it'll be for the best if you know about this _sooner_ rather than _later_ , and if you don't find out by, um, by _accident_.'

He begins choosing his words carefully.

'Late on Friday,' he continues, 'I learned on _very_ good authourity that at the end of next week the R.A.F. is going to leave the airbase at Debden. The Defence Ministry are transferring it to the United States Army Air Force. I was also informed that 605 Squadron are being moved to Hastings,' he goes on, 'and all three of the instructors from Debden are being transferred here with it.'

Now he is speaking to Sam's profile; she is looking straight ahead out of the windshield.

'At least _one_ of them has been given a substantial pre-transfer leave, and is using that time to relocate to Hastings early, arriving sometime today. I ought to add that I've been advised that none of this is meant to be generally known until next Monday, for safety's sake.'

'I see. Thank you for the information, sir. Of course I won't repeat it,' is all Sam says at first. 'They'll be wondering in there where you are,' she goes on, nodding toward the building and speaking now in a voice that announces _The subject of Andrew is not open for discussion_. 'I'll see you inside, then.'

'Yes. Oh, one other thing, Sam,' Foyle adds. 'I think I'll _walk_ home tonight. I could use a bit of extra excercise.'

* * *

'Welcome back, Miss Stewart,' Sergeant Brooke exclaims, 'and many happy returns of the day!'

'Thank you, Brookie. I'm very, _very_ glad to _be_ back,' Sam tells him. Then she presses close to the sergeant's desk and leans her head forward conspiratorially.

'Brookie, do you know why I was gone?' she whispers as quietly as she can, so that Brooke must lean forward as well.

'Yes, I _do_ , Miss Stewart, what an awful thing! I hope you realize how lucky -'

' _Shhh!_ If anybody asks about it, or brings it up at all, I had _pneumonia_. That's all you need to say. Now then,' she says aloud, 'do you happen to have a dictionary back there?'

 _9.15 –_ _Aegis_ _(_ _ee_ _-jiss – no wonder I had trouble finding it in the dictionary!). n. The auspices, backing or support of a particular person or organisation.  
Looking something up in dictionary really ought __not_ _to mean that you must then straight away look up something else!  
_ _Auspices_ _(_ _aw_ _-spiss-is). pl. n. Patronage, umbrella, protection, guidance, support, backing, guardianship, trusteeship, sponsorship, supervision, influence, control, charge, responsibility, keeping, care.  
Awfully quiet here this morning. Must find something to __do_ _. Need_ _quite_ _badly to keep mind occupied.  
Brookie just took report over telephone – burglary?  
_

* * *

'Is there something I can help you with, Sister Ashford?'

Edith tries not to jump. Matron has a trick of sneaking up on the ward sisters, bad enough at the best of times but worse now.

'Oh, no, thank you, Matron, I was just trying to see something in the visitors' register. I have a patient, Miss Edwards – this is her fourth day here and it seems to me that she's had no visitors at all, and I was just rather concerned.' _True, actually_ , Edith reminds herself.

'Well, you won't find out about it in _there_ ,' Matron tells her. 'The visitors' register is _here_ ; _that's_ Dr. Brindley's appointment book.'

'Yes, of course. How silly of me!'

But Edith already has what she needs. Dr. Brindley's list for the previous Thursday is short, just five patients, all but one of them with rather long names. The exception is the first one: just one syllable, an easy name to remember.

* * *

Visiting a burgled shop and interviewing the proprietor is normally a detective sergeant's job, in Sam's experience, but after Brooke tells Milner what the shop is, Milner tells Foyle about it.

If Sam is puzzled to be driving both Milner and Foyle to the site of what sounds to her like a routine petty crime, she does not say so. Perhaps she is just happy to be out in the car again.

If she notices that the shop they are visiting looks out at the south-east end of Swan Terrace, the glorified alley that connects the High Street directly to the lower end of Steep Lane, she gives no sign of that, either.

Mr Foyle doesn't actually _tell_ her to wait in the car, so she follows them in.

Fry and Son, stationers and engravers, is a fairly old Hastings business, established in the last full year of William IV's reign. Sam bought her diary here, and last year's as well.

 _And jolly dear they were, too. Highway robbery, really. I ought to ask Mr Foyle to investigate this place on suspicion of profiteering._

Mr Fry can't recall the shop ever having been the victim of a burglary or any other crime until this morning, when he arrived to discover the rear entry forced open and his entire remaining stock of rag paper – sheets, card stock, envelopes, in all sizes from foolscap folio up – gone.

' _Rag_ paper,' Mr Foyle wants to know, 'as contrasted with what?'

'Wood pulp paper, or mixed stock,' Mr Fry explains. 'Rag paper is made from cotton or linen, or both, although cotton is what one usually finds. It lasts much longer than wood pulp, but it _is_ also much costlier.'

He explains that it is used for, among other things, official documents of all kinds – the Hastings Borough Council, in fact, has been his only significant client for this type of product since the war began.

'Church documents – baptismal certificates and such – they're done on rag paper, too, so that they'll last,' Sam puts in.

'What sort of ink would be used for that kind of thing?' Foyle asks, ignoring her.

'Oh, I couldn't say, I'm sure,' Mr Fry replies, his tone dismissive. 'we sell ink for for fountain pens, of course, but you would have to ask a dealer in printers' or artists' needs. There _is_ such a shop in the High Street, at the north end – Pilbeam  & Co.'

'Ah. Yes. Thank you,' says Mr Foyle.

While Mr Foyle and Milner are outside examining the rear approach to the building, Brooke telephones the shop to announce that another burglary has just been reported. Sam takes down the information and rings off.

'I fear that another crime has occurred,' Mr Fry announces when the detectives return.

'Sgt Brooke just telephoned,' Sam explains. 'It's the _oddest_ thing – we were just speaking of Pilbeam  & Co., and _they've_ been burglarized as well.'

'That's just up the street, as Mr Fry mentioned. We should go there before we head back to the station,' Mr Foyle says evenly.

It looks to Sam as though he's steeling himself for something.

* * *

LONDON

At Victoria Andrew learns that he will have to wait for the 1335 local. He buys a ticket and manages to get a cup of tired tea and something claiming to be a ham sandwich. Now he has nothing to do but wait.

 _You can always write something,_ Sam herself had written last Christmas, when she'd given him a notebook. It's a small sketchbook, really; he can remember his mother carrying blank books bound just like this one, though hers were larger _. If you don't feel like writing a letter to me,_ Sam told him then, _or to somebody else for that matter, then keep a diary. It's a great comfort, I find._

It's a great comfort that the King's Regs strictly forbid, though Andrew knows that a lot of chaps in the R.A.F. do that very thing. And Sam had been absolutely right. The notebook is buried too deep in his kit for him to pull it out, though, and in any case that isn't what he wants.

He finds the last of his letter paper and sets to work. By the time he boards his coach he has something to show for his effort and feels a bit better.

* * *

HASTINGS

From in front of the shop it is almost impossible to avoid looking up the short length of Swan Terrace. Foyle watches as Sam goes around to the driver's side of the car, lowering her head as she does so.

 _No point in using up our petrol ration by moving the car_ , he thinks. _But if we leave her here, she'll have nothing to do other than..._

'Sam, do you feel up to a short walk? It'll be uphill a bit on the way back, but it isn't far.'

* * *

Pilbeam & Co. has taken to closing on Mondays for the duration, but Mrs Pilbeam discovered the burglary when she came in this morning to do some bookkeeping. Sam can't recall seeing her the only other time she's been in this shop, last December, when she'd bought a notebook ...

 _ **No.**_ Don't _think about it._ She watches Mr Foyle instead.

 _He looks as though he'd rather be almost anywhere_ else, she thinks. _Why?_

A large quantity of rag paper of various weights and sizes has been stolen. Ink has been taken as well: India ink, various colored drawing inks, and some printing ink. Some pen nibs and holders are also gone. The nibs are of various sorts, some for drawing, some for lettering.

The forced entry is once again from the rear – actually much easier here than at the other end of the street, Milner observes. From the Bourne you can walk right up to the back of the building.

Like Mr Fry, Mrs Pilbeam can't recall her family's business ever having been burgled or robbed before this. After her statement has been taken and a request made for contact to be maintained, she looks at Foyle for a moment, glances at the card he has just handed her, then looks back at him.

'Please forgive me if I'm speaking out of turn, Superintendent,' she says, 'but I have to say that your name rings a bell. Are you a client of ours?'

 _Artists' materials! Oh, of course, how_ _sad_ , thinks Sam.

'Not me,' Foyle answers. 'My wife – her professional name was Rosalind Howard – bought a lot of her supplies from you.'

* * *

It begins to rain on the way back to the station, and is coming down steadily by the time Sam has seen to the car.

She goes to the canteen and eats lunch.

Milner goes to his office and writes a report on the two burglaries.

Foyle, in turn, goes into his office and answers three messages that are waiting for him. One is from Assistant Chief Constable Rose.

Sam returns to the waiting room and sits down behind the desk.

 _After lunch – Two shops in High Street burglarized this a.m.: Fry and Son (where I bought this) and Pilbeam and Co (artists's supplies). Reams of good-quality paper stolen from both; also from P+Co, ink and pens. Paper in short supply, so possibly black-marketeers. Have not heard of shortages of other writing supplies – who would take?  
Mr F's telephone has rung several times since we returned to station._

* * *

The walk from Hastings Station leaves Andrew deflated. The rain doesn't help matters, nor do the errands he does on his way home. He is afraid to ring the bell at the first place where he stops, but at least it's still there: buildings that were intact when he left for Debden stand as bombed-out husks or are simply gone. He registers for the week at his father's grocer, where a complete stranger is behind the counter.

* * *

Unable to think of anything else to write, Sam puts her diary away and reads a memorandum that Brooke gives her about recent changes to service in the canteen.

She stares off into the middle distance for a time.

She tries to read the _Hastings and St. Leonard's Observer_ , then _The Times_ , and then the _Daily Mail_ , but finds her mind wandering.

* * *

 **Author's note** :  
Nova Pilbeam (1919-2015) died while I was writing the first draft of this chapter. As a young actress in British films of the 1930s and '40s, she often played characters who share Sam's pluck, steadfastness, and candid gaze at the world.


	4. Chapter 4

_Sam lies in her bed in the hospital ward. She has closed her eyes, hoping that if she doesn't have to look at anything she will be able to concentrate on simply breathing, something that now requires every bit of her attention._

 _If she is breathing, she must still be alive._

 _The door leading to the passage is open. Sam can hear two voices rising and falling just outside: a man's, indistinct, agitated; a woman's, clearer, calmer, firm._

' _I suppose it won't do any harm for you to sit at her bedside for a while,' says the woman, 'but if she's asleep you absolutely must_ not _wake her. We can't do very much more at this point than to make sure that she rests.'_

 _There is a chair by her bed; she hears it creak slightly. It takes a colossal effort, and she can't focus her eyes, but she opens them just enough, and for just long enough, to see a man._

 _Young. Dark hair. In uniform. Green._

 _Sam closes her eyes for a moment, then opens them again, no wider than the last time, and tries to focus on her visitor._

 _A man. Young. Dark hair. In uniform._

 _Blue._

 _She tries to draw a breath, then tries to say something, but isn't sure what – a name, perhaps._

 _It is more than she can do. She closes her eyes, catches her breath, swallows. After a moment she opens her eyes again._

 _A man. Young. Dark hair. In uniform._

 _Green._

 _Sam smiles a bit, to be polite, then closes her eyes. Easier that way. Not only breathing. Everything._

 _The next time she opens them the sun is shining at a different angle, and Joe has gone._

 _Days later, when the streptomycin has begun to do its work, she will recall the name she was trying to say. Then -_

'Sam.'

 _\- she will put the matter out of her mind -_

'Miss Stewart?'

 _\- which is where it will stay -_

'Sam?'

 _\- until now._

' **Sam!** '

'What?! _Oh!_ '

'Mr Foyle wants to speak with you,' says Brooke.

'I'm _so_ sorry, sir!' Sam gasps, leaping to her feet. 'I was a million miles away!'

'I can see that,' Mr Foyle replies. 'Are you quite all right?'

All three of them – Mr Foyle, Brooke and Milner – are standing in the waiting room, watching her carefully. Even Mr Reid is looking on from the doorway to his office.

'Yes, of _course_ I am! I was just... _thinking_ about something.'

'Hm. Well, be _that_ as it may, you have tomorrow off,' Mr Foyle tells her.

'There's absolutely no need for that, sir! I'm perfectly fine!' _Really, this is becoming ridiculous!_

'There'll be nothing for you to do here tomorrow. I have to go to London to meet with my A.C.C.'

'Should I collect you in the morning and drive you to the station, then, sir?'

'Thanks, but better not. I'll have to catch the 7.15 express. Or try to.'

'Oh, dear! What about meeting your coach when you return?'

'Thank you, Sam, but I don't know what coach that will be. It's starting to get dark earlier, there are no longer any express runs to Hastings after one o'clock, and I don't care to travel in the blackout. If I can't leave London by six o'clock I'll stay the night with my brother-in-law and his wife.'

'What if Sgt Milner needs -'

' _Sam_. This department has muddled through without you for most of August. We _can_ manage for one more day without having to shut down.' _She looks exhausted anyway, which is probably my own bloody fault. Bad timing, worse judgment._ 'I don't think I'm going to need anything else today, so if you'd like to go home, you may.'

'Thank you, sir.'

Foyle has nearly reached his office when he hears Sam say, 'Sir?'

When he turns around he sees that she is standing with her shoulders squared and her chin lifted, feet slightly apart.

'It's twenty to six and it's still raining – not hard, but it doesn't look as though it's about to stop,' she announces, in the same voice she used that morning to place the subject of Andrew out of bounds. 'Are you _quite_ sure you wouldn't like me to drive you home? I think that I _ought_ to.'

* * *

Andrew shuts his notebook and sighs. Nothing is coming to him, not for the moment at least. _There's no point, really._ _Some almighty nerve I've got, using this notebook, of all things. Nothing else left to write on, though._

He has nothing to do now but to try not to think about the past eighteen months as he waits for his father.

Debden had not been so bad at first. True, not being able to see Sam, embrace her, talk with her, really _was_ terrible – more so even than he had expected. It had felt as though a hole were drilled into him somewhere.

There were WAAF about the base, driving and sending messages and doing the other things WAAF did. They looked artificial – shiny and hard and cheap – compared to Sam, but in the very back of his mind he began to worry about what might, just might, happen if that hole grew larger.

But Sam wrote to him most weeks, which helped a great deal. He wrote back, telling her about his pupils and how pilots were trained. For the first time since he'd come down from Oxford he began seriously applying himself to writing poetry in whatever spare time he had, carefully copying out anything he thought passable and sending it to her.

His father wrote as well, of course, and occasionally Andrew read the same story in two letters, once told from his father's vantage point, once from Sam's.

He had a photograph of Sam in uniform, hair pinned up, cap on head, that he'd tacked up on the wall above his bunk; a rather official-looking picture, except for Sam's almost ecstatic smile. The other officers would ask him about her.  
 _'She's A.T.S., then?'  
'No, Mechanised Transport Corps. Public safety and so on. She works for the Hastings Police. Nerves of steel. They depend on her for all sorts of things.'  
'She's a stunner. You're an extremely lucky chap.'  
'I know it.'_ _  
_Occasionally some git – Palgrave, for one – would misread that smile, which always sent the conversation downhill.  
 _'Makes for a nice bit of spare, I'll wager.'  
'I beg your pardon. She's _hardly _the sort of girl one can speak about in that way. There's a great deal more_ to _her than just_ that _.'_  
It took Andrew's breath away to contemplate how completely walking out with Sam for a few short months had changed the way he thought about this.

In the spring Sam sent him a new photo of herself, wearing the same dress and cardigan she'd worn the first time he's taken her to the cinema, her hair tumbling in waves and curls over her shoulders. He kept that one to himself.

He'd been promoted; he was out of the fighting. He knew how pleased and relieved his father was about this, and Sam as well, so he tried to ignore the nagging feeling that he'd been kicked upstairs and was no longer doing his part.

The pupils were a remarkable lot, to be sure. But as time went on – and as bad news had started to come in about some of the pilots he'd helped to train – he'd begun to wonder how well he could prepare these men for what they would face. He had only his own small, specific experience to draw on. Whatever he'd done, by itself, started to seem less and less significant, less and less useful, as the war grew larger and larger.

And the fact was that, as exhausted as he'd been at the end of his time flying ops out of Hastings, he missed flying more and more as the months went by.

And after a while, too, Debden itself began to weigh on him.

It was farther away than he had realised, for one thing – not so much geographically, but in terms of isolation. The airbase was built on the site of a large farm, and it was entirely surrounded by farms of similar size; in any direction, the view from its edges was of fields as far as the eye could see.

The nearest coach stop was twenty minutes away if transport was available. On foot, in decent weather, it took easily an hour to get there. This, combined with all of the cutbacks in service, meant that unless one was very lucky indeed the journey between Debden and Hastings could easily stretch to eight hours. And since Galloway seemed to regard it as a point of honour that nobody should ever have more than twenty-four hours' leave at a time, it was effectively impossible for Andrew to go home.

He'd explained this to Sam, who commiserated but agreed that there wasn't much to be done.

There was a tiny village just over the horizon to the south, but there was nothing to do there: no pub, no cinema, not even a café. Andrew had thought at one point of asking his father to give Sam a holiday and then asking her to come to Debden and see him – a bit irregular, this, though after all there was a war on – but there was absolutely nowhere for her to stay. _Some killjoy nonconformist sect must have settled this place_ , Andrew thought.

And then, just after the New Year, he'd been summoned to Galloway's office. Two visitors to the base were waiting there. They wanted to speak with him.

* * *

'What is your meeting tomorrow about, sir?' Sam asks.

Foyle hesitates. He can make a pretty good guess but in truth he isn't certain. Rose was opaque even by his usual standards.

'I have a feeling that if I _knew_ , I wouldn't be allowed to discuss it.' _There. That wasn't actually a lie._

'Do you think that all that stolen paper will show up on the black market?'

'That's possible.' _Not especially likely, but possible._

'Here we are, sir,' Sam announces.

The blackout has not yet begun and she pulls the car up in front of the house just in time to see, out of the corner of her eye, a light being switched on in the sitting room and a figure inside approaching one of the windows, then quickly withdrawing.

Seeing the Wolseley approaching, Andrew is frozen to the spot for an instant – just long enough to see the familiar shape of the MTC driver's cap, not especially flattering though admittedly very practical.

'Good journey tomorrow, sir,' Sam says. Her voice is suddenly smaller and higher than usual.

'Thank you.'

'Should I at least check in at the station in the morning,' she asked, her voice now closer to its usual pitch, 'to see if... anyone needs... anything?'

'If it makes you feel better, Sam.'

* * *

 **Author's notes:  
** The Debden airbase (opened 1937; closed 1974, although the British Army now uses the site as the Carver Barracks and many of the original buildings are intact) is located at approximately 51°59'30.0"N 0°16'14.0"E, in northwest Essex between the village of Debden and the town of Saffron Walden, but much closer to the former – which, incidentally, should not be confused with the much larger identically-named town in _south_ west Essex. My description of the base and its surroundings is partly speculative – based on recent satellite and Google Streetview images – and partly a product of my imagination, and is certainly not intended to cause any offense to anyone.

 _The King's Regulations and Air Council Instructions_ , like similarly-titled documents directed at other branches of the armed forces during World War II, expressly forbade the keeping of diaries or journals. The concern was that such a diary might provide the enemy with valuable information in the event of capture or invasion. The rule was widely ignored, however, and stationers openly marketed pocket-sized diaries to servicemen and women.

Readers who are unfamiliar with the phrase _a bit of spare_ will need to look it up for themselves, as I can't get a really _useful_ definition past the FFN server's filters.


	5. Chapter 5

Sam has always found Mrs Hardcastle, her landlady of the past two years, hard to figure out. She is very strict about certain things. She flatly refuses to address the girls in the forces by their proper titles. At times she seems to assume that any girl who has come to Hastings to do war work of any kind is, at the very least, no better than she should be.

At other times she can be kindness itself. This evening, Sam is pleased to discover, seems to be one of those times.

'Ah, Miss Stewart,' Mrs Hardcastle trills as Sam enters the hall, 'many happy returns of the day! Miss Lyle told me after you'd left that it was your birthday today, and just _look_ at what you got in the post!'

There are two parcels waiting for Sam, along with several cards and ... what is that?

'Someone pushed that through the letter slot at about a quarter to five,' Mrs Hardcastle goes on, pointing at an envelope that appears to contain something other than a card. 'I saw it fall to the floor, but I was in the kitchen and by the time I could open the door there was no-one there.'

No stamp, no postmark, no address, just _Miss Samantha Stewart_ written on the front. Sam knows the hand.

'Mrs Hardcastle,' Sam begins hesitantly, 'would you mind _terribly_ much if I were to take my supper up to my room, just this once? It's just that I'm _awfully_ tired. I'll be _ever_ so careful not to make a mess, and I'll wash up first thing in the morning, I promise.'

'You _do_ look all in,' Mrs Hardcastle admitted. 'Well, all right. Just this once, mind. Wasn't very nice of them to work you half to death on your first day back from sick leave, was it?'

'Thank you _so_ much. And it wasn't _their_ fault. Things come up unexpectedly in my line of work, after all. In any case I'll be off tomorrow; my boss has to go to London for the day, on the 7.20 express.'

Mrs Hardcastle's good mood seems to evaporate slightly.

' _Oh_. Dinner and afternoon tea aren't included in your rental, don't forget – now you're well.'

Sam takes her parcels and envelopes upstairs and puts them on her bed, hangs her tunic in the room's wardrobe, puts her cap on the wardrobe shelf, and goes back down to the kitchen. She finds Glenda Lyle finishing up her meal.

Glenda is in the A.T.S. She is a searchlight operator and is on duty mostly at night, looking for German bombers so the anti-aircraft pilots will have an easier time of it. She has been at Mrs Hardcastle's house since May; like Sam, she moved here after losing her previous billet in an air raid. She seems a nice enough girl, if a bit racy at times, and awfully garrulous. Listening to her, Sam has begun to understand why Mr Foyle sometimes seems to want nothing so much as for Sam to simply stop talking.

'Many happy returns,' Glenda coos, 'and aren't you the lucky one, with all those cards and parcels! A secret admirer, too, from what Mrs H. tells me. Your American chap, I suppose. I _do_ like the Americans. One in particular.'

 _A month ago I would have taken that hint_ , Sam thinks.

Glenda ignores her silence and rattles on.

'My goodness, you _do_ look tired! Ought you _really_ to have gone back to work today? Bronchitis, that's a serious thing. Could've turned to pneumonia, you know.'

'I wouldn't mind a good night's sleep,' Sam admits, 'but first I have to open all of those envelopes and parcels, don't I? So Mrs Hardcastle's given me permission to eat supper in my room. What is there _for_ supper?'

Supper is mutton stew– not what Sam would have chosen for a birthday meal, but edible. After she finishes eating she carefully puts her plate, knife and fork on top of the dresser and turns to the pile of parcels and envelopes waiting for her on the bed.

The first parcel is from her parents; it is shaped like, and contains, a shoebox. The box, in turn, contains a knitted wool muffler – ashes of roses, _not_ a regulation color, so that Sam wonders if she'll be able to wear it with her uniform.

There is also a letter from her parents, mostly admonitory in tone, telling her that she must take better care of herself, but Sam thinks it could have been worse: they make no mention of her returning home.

The second parcel is from Aunt Amy and Uncle Michael, and contains a diary for 1943. It is not as fine as the one they gave her three years ago, just before the war broke out, but is nicer than those she has bought for the last two years at Fry's.

There is a long letter with it, wishing her well and telling her all about the goings on in their corner of Hampshire. Among other things, Aunt Amy has been elected president of her local Women's Institute.

Sam looks at the envelopes and, recognizing Joe's hand on one of them, decides to open it first.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

 _USACE Hastings  
August 30th, 1942_

 _Dear Sam,_

 _First, Happy Birthday. (I've heard people here say "many happy returns of the day," so I'll wish you that, too!) I sent home more than a month ago for a birthday present for you, but it's been taking its time getting here, and I can't wait any more if you're going to get this card in time. When your present does arrive, I'll make sure that you get it._

 _I've thought a lot about what you said the last time I saw you, and I guess I understand. You deserve to be very, very happy, and I hope you will be._

 _I've also been thinking about what I'm doing for the war effort, and it isn't enough. I'm a good mechanic, but I'm not an engineer, and I don't think I'm being put to good use here. I also don't think I can take much more of the weather in this part of the world, so I'm putting in for a transfer._

 _Yours very truly,_

 _Pfc. Joseph Farnetti  
215th Company  
United States Army Corps of Engineers _

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The news that Sam has been ill must have spread through the family like wildfire, she thinks; there are cards or letters from just about every relation she has, including three who are serving overseas.

 _That's what I'll do tomorrow_ , Sam thinks. _I'll take some letter paper to the Hastings Library and write thank-you letters, so that I'll be out of Mrs Hardcastle's way._

Now she is left with only the last envelope, the one with no address, just her name. Obviously a letter, not a card. She holds it for a moment, then puts it down. She goes over to the wardrobe and pulls her diary out of her tunic pocket.

The floor of the compartment at the top of the wardrobe is level with Sam's eyes. She has only to raise her head a bit to see the corner where the other letters are.

For months there was one almost every week. Twice there were envelopes stuffed full of poems, some about the war, some clearly addressed directly to her; a few had made her face turn hot as she read them. So had some of the letters.

There had been fewer letters as the autumn turned into winter, and they were shorter, some of them, and more and more pessimistic. His airbase was in the wilderness. His commanding officer was a petty tyrant with odd notions about honour and duty.

A brief note in January, then nothing at all until...

One day, in a fit of melodrama, she found a piece of black ribbon and tied it around all of them. A ridiculous thing to do, she thinks now, but she hasn't been able to bring herself to discard any of them, not even the last horrible one, dated 18 April. She had crumpled it into a ball and put it in the waste bin as soon as she read it, then fished it out the next morning and put it with the others; even now she can't explain why, not if her life depended upon it. Everything is still there, along with the photograph that once sat in a frame on her bedside table. The frame itself is in her wardrobe as well, empty now. Somehow it had never occurred to her to put a photograph of Joe there.

Sam sits back down at her desk and opens the diary.

 _After supper – Second shop we visited today sells artists' supplies. Manageress recognized Mr F's name – his wife was a customer there. Felt terrible for him, but he didn't turn a hair. Am going to need some of that sort of steel myself. Have been avoiding writing this all day, but must face facts: A back in Hastings, apparently for some time to come. Have new letter from him._

'I take it,' Foyle queries, 'that you still can't discuss the, um, project you were involved with when you wrote in April?' He and Andrew have finished their supper – a trout from Saturday and some Brussels sprouts – and moved into the sitting room.

'No, Dad, I'm sorry. I can't. I don't know that I'll _ever_ be able to tell you about that.'

 _He sounds as tired as he looks_ , Foyle thinks.

'Did it get you back in the air, at least?'

'Yes. Yes, it did,' Andrew says, with more enthusiasm now. ' _Two_ ops, actually, and I learned to fly a different type of craft, a -' He brakes off suddenly, now looking distressed as well as weary, and shakes his head. 'I really am very sorry, Dad. I'm not free to explain any of this.'

'I could spend an entire evening, Andrew, violating the Official Secrets Act by telling you about things that I've been privy to lately. I'm fairly sure I know what this meeting tomorrow in London is about, and if I'm right then I won't be able to tell you about _that_ , either. It's a fair trade. No need to apologise.'

'Thank you.' The tiredness has returned to Andrew's voice.

Foyle tells him about Sgt Rivers' retirement; about his replacement, Brooke, a London transplant who finds Hastings too quiet for his citified tastes; and, circumspectly, about the arrival of the American servicemen, which had caused such a stir in April. Andrew listens attentively but can feel his father observing him.

'Well,' says Foyle at last. 'Are you pleased to be back in Hastings after your time in Debden?'

'I couldn't be _more_ pleased to have left Debden,' Andrew replies, with real feeling. 'It's a bloody wasteland. It would be better used as a prison camp than as a base. The Yanks can have it. They couldn't even get here in decent time, let them suffer.'

'Oh, come now, they're not _so_ terrible.'

There is a short silence. _There's no way to put this off any longer_ , Andrew decides.

'Was that Sam who dropped you off, Dad?'

'Yes, of course,' Foyle replies carefully. 'She's been, um, under the weather recently, but she came back to work today.'

Now Andrew watches his father. _Why did he glance away when he said that?_

'Why d'you ask?' his father went on, watching him again.

'We... I... we've been out of touch. I need to speak with her.'

' _Do_ you.' There is another small silence, an ugly one this time. 'I can _imagine_ that you've been "out of touch." It couldn't very well have been _otherwise_ , could it?'

His father's voice has become abrasive. _That's_ that _question answered, then_ , Andrew thinks.

'It wasn't true, you know,' he says. 'The part about having met someone else.'

'I _really_ don't know if I'm glad to hear that or _not_ ,' Foyle says, infuriated, voice raised. 'She was _breathtakingly_ matter-of-fact when she told me about it. Blamed the whole thing on the strain of trying to keep things going across such a long distance – she didn't blame you at all. Told me you'd been 'very honest' – _of all things!'_

'Well, for what it's worth, that _was_ pretty horrible, Dad, I can tell you!'

'I'm not insensitive to that, Andrew. _I've_ had to do it as well.'

'Of course, Dad. I know that you did. I didn't mean to imply otherwise. By the time I wrote to Sam I really thought my chances of coming back were slim to nil,' Andrew goes on, 'and I didn't want her to worry or mourn.'

'Letting your imagination run away with you _isn't_ a very good excuse for throwing away the best thing that ever happened to you.'

'I'm not offering any excuses, Dad.'

'I lied to her myself,' says Foyle after a moment. 'You asked me not to say anything to her about having heard from you. And I don't think it was more than a day later that she asked me if I _had_ – I remember she said that she _hadn't_ – and I lied and said that I hadn't either. I told her this morning that you were on your way back to Hastings and she changed the subject so quickly that I _almost_ thought she hadn't been listening. Now _you_ say you need to _speak_ to her. Come 'round the station to try that and you'll get your head in your hand. And in any event, don't expect too much. A great deal of water can pass under a bridge in four months. But she does know that you're here, and why,' he goes on, more gently now, 'and since I'll have to leave at the crack of dawn tomorrow I gave her the day off.'

Sam shuts her diary, takes a deep breath, lets it out – _how lovely, how miraculous almost, to be able to do that simple thing_ – picks up the last envelope, and slits it open.

 _Victoria Coach Station, London  
31 August 1942_

 _Dear Sam,_

 _Many happy returns of the day. I'm extremely sorry that I won't have the chance to present this letter to you in person today._

 _That's by no means the only thing that I'm extremely sorry about. I was stupid and mad to have sent you that letter in April. Almost every wretched word of it was a lie. I didn't meet anyone else. I made that up. There couldn't possibly be anyone else for me._

 _It's much more than I deserve, but I do want very much to explain all of this to you. To do so, though, I will have to violate the law, so I can't take the risk of doing it in writing, or in any public place. I have been transferred back to Hastings for the foreseeable future. I'm on leave until 1800 hours on Sunday, and will be staying at my Dad's house until that afternoon._

 _I love you. That has never changed._

 _Andrew_

 _That night Sam dreams of the hospital ward. In her dream she can breathe and move and open her eyes, but can't speak – not a word, not a sound. Perhaps that's why she's here. She seems to have been here for a very long time._

 _There is a chair by her bed; she hears it creak slightly and turns her head towards it. Someone has come to visit her._

 _A man. Young. Dark hair. In uniform. Blue._

 _Her visitor moves from the chair by her bedside to the bed itself, and bends over her._

 _Then, at last, she can say his name._


	6. Chapter 6

TUESDAY 1 SEPTEMBER

Sam lets herself sleep only slightly later than she would do on an ordinary weekday. She washes up, then puts on a dark grey utility skirt, a grey and white blouse from before the war and a dark red cardigan. She braids her hair and lets the plait hang down her back.

She takes her supper things down to the kitchen, carefully washes and dries them and puts them away. Only a couple of the other girls are still there; Glenda must be upstairs by now, asleep after her night's duty. Sam helps herself to some breakfast.

'Going out, then?' Mrs Hardcastle asks her, without saying 'Good morning' first.

'Yes, Mrs Hardcastle,' Sam replies. 'I have thank-you letters to write after yesterday, so I thought I'd go to the library and do that.'

Sam goes back upstairs, brushes her teeth, puts letter paper, envelopes, pens and pencils, stamps, her change purse and her diary in her haversack, and sets out. The sky is clear and brilliant, but the air feels cool on Sam's face and hands; autumn is coming.

As she enters Clairemont Road she slows down. Then, in front of the library, she abruptly crosses the road, turns into Trinity Street, and keeps walking eastward into Castle Hill Road, and then onto the West Hill recreation ground.

This seems like a shortcut at first; then Sam remembers that it will mean actually _climbing_ the hill. By the time she reaches the top she is quite winded, and is grateful to see the benches along the footpath. She sits down on the first one.

While she catches her breath she thinks about where she is going and what she will do when she gets there.

 _I will_ not _cry in front of Andrew_ , she promises herself.

 _I won't touch him, and I won't let him touch me._

 _I won't mention Joe._

When her breathing and heartbeat feel normal she sets out again. _Going down the other side of the hill will be easier_ , she reminds herself. At the bottom she follows the path into Swan Terrace and then turns left into Steep Lane.

* * *

Andrew comes to the door in shirtsleeves and braces, just as he had the first time Sam ever saw him, almost exactly two years ago. He is startled and almost frightened when he sees her there.

 _I did ask for this_ , he reminds himself.

Sam fights down several impulses – to kiss him, to burst into tears, to turn and run – and then takes him in for a moment. There are worry lines across his forehead and between his brows. Those are new. But he still looks the same. He is still Andrew.

'Good morning, Andrew.' Her voice is as steady as she can make it. 'You said you needed to speak to me in private, and so here I am.'

'Yes – yes, of course. Thank you. Please come through. We can sit in the kitchen; the light's better there than in the dining room. I can make some tea if you'd like.'

'No, thank you.'

They sit down at the kitchen table as if for a meeting between ambassadors of belligerent nations, facing each other, Sam with her back to the garden door. She folds her hands in her lap and waits. Andrew rests his hands on the edge of the table and looks at her again.

' _Under the weather,' Dad said._ She is still surpassingly lovely, but she looks pale and slightly too thin, and there are faint shadows around her eyes.

'How are you, Sam?' he asks at last.

'I'm fine, thank you very much for asking.' There is an edge of sarcasm in her voice that makes him flinch, which he tries not to let her see.

'My Dad tells me you've been sick.'

'Pneumonia,' she says, sounding dismissive, but she looks away from him when she mentions her illness, just as his father did last night.

'What was it that you wanted to tell me, Andrew?'

'Right. Yes. This isn't intended as an excuse, because I don't _have_ one, not for what I wrote to you in April. And I'm not telling you this in order to impress you or gain your sympathy. It's simply the best explanation I can offer.'

He gathers himself together and begins.

'At the beginning of January, some people from the Ministry of Economic Warfare, which I'd never heard of until then, asked me to volunteer as a pilot for a mission that I was told I wouldn't be free to speak of to anybody. They wouldn't tell me anything else about it until I'd signed the Official Secrets Act. That's why I needed to tell you about this face to face, and in private. I'm breaking the law by talking about this.'

'I understand. It'll go no further, I promise. What did this mission involve?'

'Flying a couple of ops into Nazi-controlled territory to deliver supplies and equipment to... people there who are working for the Allies, trying to end Nazi rule.'

'Why did they want you, in particular, to do that?'

'They were looking for a pilot with a great deal of experience flying night ops, and also low-altitude flying, and, well, that's me, I suppose. They must have had access to my service record. Not difficult to imagine, really.'

'And _did_ you volunteer?'

'I did. That's why you didn't hear from me between January and April. I left Debden to train for my new assignment. It was a secret, of course, and the postmarks would have given me away. I wasn't allowed to write to _anyone_ then.'

'You were meant to be out of harm's way in Debden.' Sam now sounds slightly agitated.

'It's pretty questionable whether _that_ was ever true, Sam; Debden has seen quite a bit of bombardment. But the point is, I was tired of doing nothing useful for the war effort. I'm fairly hopeless as an instructor -'

'I don't believe _that_ for a _moment_!'

'Oh, don't you? Well, let me tell you about it. Since February last year I've helped to train one hundred nineteen pupils, fifty-three of whom have qualified as pilots. Of those fifty-three, eleven are dead, three are missing, five are known to have been taken prisoner and three are disabled. That's as of last week. That's what I've been doing for most of the past eighteen months.'

'That's awful,' Sam says after digesting this. 'It must be dreadful to receive that sort of news about your pupils. I'm sorry. But their bad luck is hardly _your_ fault, Andrew!'

'When I was flying ops the war wasn't nearly as big or complicated as it is now. My experience is from two years ago – it's really no longer very useful in preparing pilots for what they'll be facing. And in any case I was fed up with being on the sidelines.'

'Why didn't you simply apply for a transfer, then?'

'That's a very good question. I'm not entirely sure.' Andrew is silent for a moment. 'Perhaps I was afraid of being sent even farther away from you. There _was_ one thing about this mission, though, when they described it to me, that made it very... attractive.' He pauses again.

'I don't know if you remember this,' he goes on, hesitantly, 'but that night when I was at the end of my rope and you hid me at your billet, I said that sometimes when I was in the air I wished that you were with me.'

'I do remember that, yes,' Sam says quietly. _I remember every waking second of that night, but I won't tell you that, not now._

'It was a ridiculous thing to say – I would _never_ be able to take you along with me on ops, obviously! But even if that _were_ possible, I'd only ever flown Spitfires. A Spit can only carry the pilot.'

'You _really_ have lost me now, Andrew. What has that to do with anything?'

'I had been thinking that after the war, when it's safe, I'd like to take you up in a plane. And I kept thinking about that all last year. You look shocked,' he tells her.

'Well, it seems a bit... _frivolous_ , doesn't it? I've only ever even been in a _boat_ a couple of times!'

Not for the first time, Andrew feels a small spasm of anger at Sam's parents. _My God, they really kept her under glass, didn't they?_ _No school after she was fourteen, no Girl Guides, nothing._

 _Then again, if they had let her run about a bit more, she wouldn't be Sam, would she?_

'In any case, the type of 'plane they use for this sort of op, it's called a Lysander. They use it partly because it _can_ carry a passenger – or even three, supposedly, although they'd be like tinned sardines – or it can take a fair amount of cargo. The other important thing is that it can land in a very short space, just 400 yards.'

'Did you have to _land_ in enemy territory?' Sam asks. She's having trouble controlling her voice, to her great irritation, and this comes out in something only just louder than a whisper.

'The second time, yes. That wasn't planned. The... articles I was transporting were packed into cases that were attached to parachutes. The idea is to open the hatch and push the containers out, and the parachutes are meant to open automatically,' Andrew explains. 'Apparently it all goes like clockwork most of the time. But during my second op the weather changed suddenly – fog started rolling in and I couldn't see the spot where I was meant to drop the cargo. I had to descend, and by the time I could see the ground well enough to go ahead I was flying so low that there wouldn't have been time for the parachutes to open, and the cargo would have been damaged. So I landed.'

'Weren't you frightened?'

'Well, of course! I'm not _that_ much of an idiot, Sam – I was _terrified!_ I'd been told what to _do_ if I needed to land, of course, and I had escape aides and my service revolver, but I only know a few words of the language – only what they taught me. If the wrong person had approached it would have been over.'

Sam takes this in for a time. Then she says, 'I still don't understand at _all_ why you would _volunteer_ for something so terribly _dangerous_. It isn't as though there's been no one worrying that you won't get through the war in one piece.'

She stops abruptly, looking away. Her voice is shaking now. _This will_ not _do_ , she thinks.

'"Volunteer" isn't precisely the right word,' Andrew replies after a moment. 'It was made clear to me that _not_ agreeing to fly... might have serious repercussions.'

'What do you mean? What _sort_ of repercussions?'

'I have a skeleton in my closet, Sam. I thought the matter had been dealt with, somehow, by... the powers that be, but it seems I was wrong.'

Sam looks at him for a moment, warily, without saying anything.

'What is the skeleton in your closet, Andrew?' she asks at last.

'When I was at Oxford, I joined the Communist Party of Great Britain.'

 _Is_ that _all?_ , Sam thinks. _Still, it would raise eyebrows if some people knew about it._ _Or it would have done._

Last year she had imagined bringing Andrew to West Sussex and Hampshire and points north to meet her parents and her extended family. Her largest problem, she had thought at the time, would be that Andrew was educated at Oxford, while her father and uncles are Cambridge men.

 _I was wrong, apparently._ _But there's no need anymore to worry about that_ , she reminds herself.

'I only went to a few meetings – I think it can have been five or six at the most – before I got bored, not to say fed up,' Andrew is saying. 'It was just a sort of clique – unashamed toffee-nosed snobs, most of them – who thought they were going to tell everyone else how to live.'

'When was this?'

'1938. Why do you ask?'

'Well, those were still pretty hard times – there were a _huge_ number of people out of work during the thirties, with absolutely _no_ prospects of getting back _in_ work. I _do_ remember what it was like. Some of my father's parishioners lost their livelihoods or their homes. A lot of people were quite desperate. I suppose some of them must have felt as though the system we have in this country had stopped working, or had never _really_ worked in the _first_ place, and been willing to consider almost _anything_ else.'

'I was more upset about Spain at that point, really, than about anything that was going on here at home. But, Sam, you think much too well of me,' Andrew goes on uncomfortably. 'That isn't why I joined the CPGB. I wasn't _really_ being idealistic.'

'Why, then?'

'There was this girl.'

' _Oh_ ,' is all that Sam says at first, looking away again as she does so. Then, largely to break the silence that followed this, she asks, 'What was her name?'

'Elizabeth Racine-Puttock. And she _was_ a true believer, I can tell you, although I didn't understand that at first. I wanted to... impress her, so I went with her to a Party meeting, and I wanted to impress her more than _that_ , so I joined. It took me only a few more meetings to see what it was about, and what _she_ was about, and I told her I was resigning, and that was that. So I thought. I never actually bothered to resign. They collect dues – I never paid any after that first year, but apparently that's not enough. And the R.A.F. were informed about it somehow, and it _has_ been used to undermine me – or that's been tried, at least. I said at the time that I wasn't ashamed of it, and I'm not, but I suppose, looking back, that I'm a bit embarrassed about it.'

'Why should anyone care, though?' Sam asks. 'Russia is our ally.'

Andrew shakes his head.

'That's strictly a matter of the enemy of our enemy being our friend,' he tells her. 'It'll end as soon as the war is over – you'll see. That's assuming we win, of course,' he adds. 'At any rate, someone got hold of the information, and those people from His Majesty's Government knew about it, and they made it pretty clear that they'd be happy to use it against me if I didn't cooperate with them.'

'Are you saying that you were _blackmailed_ into flying this _very_ _dangerous_ mission?'

'Well... yes, I suppose so. I'd actually never thought of it in those terms, but you're right. That's what it was.'

'This is the Special Operations Executive that you've been talking about, isn't it?' Sam asks suddenly.

Andrew is too startled to answer her at first.

'Was there a Miss Pierce involved in this?' she demands, 'or a Lieutenant Colonel Wintringham?'

'Yes. Both of them. They were the people who came to talk to me at Debden in January. Sam, how on Earth -'

But before he can say anything more Sam abruptly stands up, turns away and bolts out of the door and into the garden.

* * *

 _Mr Foyle must not be much of a gardener_ , Sam thinks.

Then again, it would be hard to do much gardening on such a tiny plot of land, especially with an Anderson shelter now taking up much of the space. Other than that there are only the huge tree Andrew has told her about – _probably older than the house_ , she thinks; _the whole terrace must have been built around it_ – a shed, and the short bench on which she now sits, seething. Her vision has become slightly blurred and she realises that she is, at last, crying.

 _That woman – those people – ought_ not _to be able to play with people's lives that way._

 _People should_ not _be treated as though they were marionettes._

'That is simply _wrong_ ,' she says out loud. The sound of her own voice startles her.

Faintly, she can hear the telephone ringing inside the house.

* * *

'Milner here ... What's happened? ... How did you manage to do _that_? ... You're not going to get into any trouble over this, are you? Where are you now? ... Well, all right. Go ahead. What did you see? ... And how was it spelled? ... Ah. You're sure? And you're sure about the initial? ... You didn't happen to get a look at her when she was there, did you? ... Hm ... Well, no – this isn't police business, really. But it's interesting to see that name crop up, let's put it that way. ... All right. Look, Edith, thank you for doing this. I'll talk to you again soon.'


	7. Chapter 7

Sam returns to the kitchen just in time to hear Andrew pick up the receiver. Standing at one end of the table, next to where she was seated before, she can see clear through to where Andrew is standing in the sitting room.

'Foyle residence ... Oh, Dad, hello! Where are you? ... Oh, really? ... That quickly? Model of efficiency, isn't he? ... Of course you can't. That doesn't surprise me at all ... No, I'm perfectly fine right here, really. Some peace and quiet will do me good ... That's true, but this is a different _sort_ of peace and quiet ... '

There is a long pause during which Andrew turns toward the kitchen and, seeing Sam standing there, gives her a look of mock alarm.

'Noted ... Yes ... All right, then. I'll see you this evening. Looking forward to it ... So am I ... Good-bye, then.'

Andrew returns to the kitchen and stands on his side of the table.

'How much of that did you hear?' he asks.

'All of it, I think.'

'Good. It seems that this London confab my Dad got up before dawn in order to get to was over in three-quarters of an hour and he'll be back this afternoon if at all possible. He's not at liberty to say what it was about.'

 _No one can talk about much of anything these days_ , Sam thinks.

'And while he didn't actually _tell_ me to tell you this – not in so many words – _your_ instructions are to take the rest of the day off and bring the car around tomorrow as usual.'

'I see. Thank you. Your father really does have eyes in the back of his head, doesn't he?'

'Haven't you discovered that before now?'

'Do you always answer one question with another?'

'Why d'you ask? Does it annoy you? There, you see,' Andrew goes on, 'sometimes I answer a question with two questions!'

They are both laughing now. Sam had forgotten how easily they used to make each other do that.

'I apologise for running off like that,' she says.

'No matter.' _It would have been a great deal worse if you'd left by the front door._

'If that tea is still on offer I wouldn't mind a cup now.'

'Of course. Do sit back down – please. I'll get it.'

While the water boils and the tea steeps Andrew rummages in the larder for something for Sam to eat. There isn't much there, but he finds a tin with two biscuits in it, and puts both of them on her saucer.

'Oh, thank you,' she says. 'Don't _you_ want one, though?'

'No, that's all right. You're on sick rations, I hope.'

'Through the middle of the month. Orange juice, but also cod liver oil.'

'Well, you eat those biscuits. They'll get the taste of that oil out of your mouth.'

'Thank you.'

'How do you know that lot I was working for?' Andrew asks her after a moment.

'The Hastings Police have had some... dealings with them. They've interfered with a couple of investigations – Miss Pierce in particular. Best not to repeat this, by the way. I really shouldn't discuss police business with anyone outside the department.'

'Not a word, as always,' Andrew assures her. 'That's interesting to hear, though.'

'Yes. Did they know... who you _are?_ '

'If they _did_ see my service record, then they must have done. My next of kin would have been named, with an address. It was never mentioned, though.'

Sam nods. She is silent again, then speaks abruptly.

'Was it successful?'

'Was what successful?'

'The operation you... worked on,' she explains. 'Was it successful?'

'Oh. Well, they only tell you as much as you need to know to play your part,' Andrew replies. 'From what I've read in the papers, though, I gather that, yes, they accomplished what they set out to do. But it seems, as well, that that there were... unforeseen consequences.'

'What do you mean?'

'Reprisals. On a huge scale. Thousands of civilians killed, apparently. Two whole villages completely wiped out.'

'I've read about this, too,' Sam tells him, realising suddenly that she has done just that. 'Andrew, you absolutely must _not_ blame yourself for any of that,' she goes on, her voice urgent. 'Perhaps the people who _plan_ these... _things_ will have learned something from what happened this time.'

'I _don't_ blame myself, Sam. I really don't think that they were expecting that bloodbath. But I'm also not at all sure that they care. No, I'll put that differently – I'm quite sure that they _don't._ I got the overwhelming impression that the S.O.E. are concerned only with ends, not at all with means.'

They are both silent for a while.

'Fair's fair,' Sam says at last. 'You've just told me something I'm not meant to know, so I'll tell you something you're not meant to know.'

'You're not obliged to, Sam. You don't owe me anything at all.'

'I think I _ought_ to tell you about _this_. But you mustn't repeat a word of it, not to _anyone_.'

'Understood.'

'I didn't have pneumonia last month.'

'What _did_ you have?'

'Anthrax poisoning.'

' _My God, Sam! How_ -'

Sam has been resting one hand on the tabletop; now she quickly withdraws it to her lap as he reaches for it with his own.

'It was an accident,' she says.

She tells him everything that she can remember: the Foxhall Farm cattle, the friendly goat, the stray piece of barbed wire; the woman who was sickened before she was and who died; the doses of streptomycin that seemed to materialise out of thin air; the long stay in hospital.

Andrew listens in complete silence, too horrified to make a sound.

'It was an Army Intelligence experiment, covered under the Official Secrets Act, so of course it has to be kept quiet,' Sam is saying, 'but _now_ it seems that the S.O.E. are saying that _they_ have an interest in it as well. I told people who came to visit me that I had bronchitis – my parents, as well – but before I was discharged I began to think that pneumonia would be a better thing to say. I'm fine now,' she sums up.

'Pneumonia was a good choice,' Andrew says at last. Sam looks as though she _could_ have had pneumonia recently, it seems to him.. 'Are you _certain_ that you've recovered completely? You look... the slightest bit frail.'

'The doctor who treated me released me to go back to work. I _must_ be all right. Although I'll admit I was _very_ tired at the end of the day yesterday, and I had a hard time of it climbing the West Hill when I was walking here today.'

Sam nibbles at a biscuit and sips her tea.

'You'll be in Hastings indefinitely, then?' she asks at last.

'Yes, 605 Squadron is moving here, so I suppose I'll be here until they realize that I'm not really any use to them.'

' _Please_ don't talk that way, Andrew.' She falls silent again and looks away. 'What is it,' she asks after a while, 'that you want us -'

 _To do? To be?_ She doesn't know how to finish the question.

Andrew doesn't trust himself to reply at once. Not aloud.

 _I want hold you,_ he thinks. _I want you to hold me. I want you to say something cheerful and sensible when the world looks like the most beastly place. I want to kiss every part of you that I can reach. I want to feel your heart racing when I do that. I want you to kiss me back._

He stops himself and then thinks, _I want to forget that the last eight months ever happened._

'I have loved you since the moment you first spoke to me, Sam,' he says finally. 'I can't remember what _I_ said to _you_ – I think it was some faffle about pretty girls driving in the WAAF – but _you_ said, "I see you don't hold back. Obviously been well-trained by the R.A.F.," and you said that you tended to mix more with policemen than with pilots, and that it was just as well. And you also said, "I was hoping to cook or knit balaclavas for His Majesty's forces, but here I am." I remember _all_ of that.'

'What you said, actually, was that your father never told you that a _girl_ was driving for him,' Sam recalls, not looking at Andrew, 'but you stammered a couple of times as you said that. I remember being _quite_ surprised by that. And you asked if I'd met many pilots, and you said, "Look, I didn't mean to offend you. We've got plenty of WAAF drivers. I just didn't expect to meet one driving my dad." _That's_ what you said.'

From the very beginning she has never wanted to admit this, how quickly Andrew had got under her skin.

'Yes, well, I could feel the ground shifting under my feet right away – the landscape altering, if you like,' says Andrew. 'The point is, you weren't having any of my usual rubbish.'

'And you liked that.'

'And I've loved you ever since then. Sam, when I told you that I have a skeleton in my closet,' Andrew goes on, 'what did you think it would be?'

'Is that _really_ important? That you have a child somewhere, I suppose.'

'Yes, I thought as much. I _don't_ – or if I do then no one has told me. But you're right – that's just the sort of scrape I was liable to get myself into, given how I always was with girls before you. I don't like that about myself, Sam. The reason I was so angry when it turned out that Dad had given you that money to take me to the Pavilion, that time when my arm was broken, is that I knew full well that he has a very low opinion of me when it comes to girls, and I also knew – I _know_ – that I _earned_ that opinion. It took me _weeks_ after we met to understand that I loved you, because I had absolutely no idea what it felt like to _actually_ _be_ _in love_ with a girl, not just to fancy her. I'm not explaining this very well. But I loved you then and I love you now.'

'Then why did you send me that horrible letter?' Sam's words come in a rush now; she is shouting. 'Didn't you know that I was afraid of that,' she goes on, 'that there would be some other girl, cleverer or... or more... _experienced_ than me? Why did you have to let me think that that's what it was? Couldn't you have simply told me that you had volunteered for a dangerous mission, that it was your duty as a pilot and an officer to do this, even though you might not come back?'

'That would have been just as much a lie as what I _did_ tell you!'

'I'd have _vastly_ preferred that one! You needn't have told me any of the rest of it! I wouldn't have had to know _any_ of this!'

'I didn't want you to worry about me, to begin with, and -'

'Oh, _really_ , Andrew! I've been worrying about you for nearly two years!'

This brings them both up short. Sam has been looking directly at him. Now she looks away again.

 _No_ , _I never stopped,_ she thinks. _It's true, isn't it? Not when I was walking out with Joe. Not ever._

'And during the last few days before I had to stop writing letters entirely,' Andrew continues at last, 'it began to dawn on me just how dangerous this op might turn out to be, and I really thought I had better prepare for the worst. Perhaps I had simply managed to scare myself witless. It wouldn't have been the first time. In any case, given _how_ I'd gotten involved, I thought it would be best if you didn't miss me – in case I _didn't_ come back, I mean. So I dug myself into a pit. I wasn't thinking clearly, I'll admit. That's putting it quite mildly. There were _some_ things in that letter that _were_ true, Sam, and one was that I _was_ losing my mind without you. I never did answer your question about what it is that I want,' he goes on. 'I'm in no position to want _anything_ from you, Sam. I'm quite aware of that. But you did ask. Is there any way that we could pick up where we left off, or start over again from the beginning? Could we do that?' His voice is breaking now.

 _Oh, dear Lord God_ , she prays, _please don't let him cry, or I'll start crying again, too!_

He doesn't.

'We can hardly just start up again,' she tells him quietly. 'Neither one of us is the same person we were in April, let alone a year and a half ago. But then we do have a history together, so I don't know how we can simply -'

She breaks off.

'I intended to go to the Hastings Library this morning and write letters,' she continues after a moment. 'I think that I had better do that now.'

'Of course. If I try to tell you how grateful I am that you came to see me, Sam, I'll make a fool of myself once and for all, but thank you. May I walk with you to the library?'

Sam, to her own surprise, agrees to this. At Andrew's suggestion they take a longer route, skirting the base of the hill so that Sam will not have to make the climb again. She carefully evades his every attempt to take her arm until he takes the hint and gives up the effort.

Despite the pleasant weather there are few people out an hour or so before midday, but as they turn the corner into the Parade they see another couple, both in uniform, the woman in khaki, the man in green.

Sam and Andrew have been saying little, spent by the morning's conversation, but the other couple must hear them coming, for they turn around to see who is there. Sam finds herself looking into the startled faces of Glenda Lyle and her American.

* * *

 **Author's notes:**  
In this and the previous chapter Andrew has been describing Operation Anthropoid, an S.O.E. action that was carried out in Prague on May 27th, 1942. Its object – the assassination of Reiner Heydrich, Acting _Reichsprotektor_ of the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia (in the present-day Czech Republic) – was not achieved immediately: Heydrich lingered until June 4th before dying of his wounds. Reprisals had begun by that time; they included the liquidation of Lidice and Ležáky (combined population ca. 490) to which the S.O.E. agents, Jozef Gabčík and Jan Kubiš, were mistakenly believed to have ties. The exact number of Czechoslovak civilians either killed or sent to concentration camps in reprisal remains unknown; estimates range from 1,300 to 5,000. Press coverage of the assassination attempt and its aftermath was extensive, but the S.O.E.'s role, of course, remained unknown for many years.

 _Faffle_ is a word that I coined for use in this chapter – neither _rot_ nor _rubbish_ seemed to fill the bill.


	8. Chapter 8

Everyone is suddenly standing at attention, including Sam, though she wishes for her uniform. Introductions seem called for.

'Warrant Officer, Class I, Glendora Lyle, 93rd Searchlight Regiment, Royal Artillery,' Sam begins, using Glenda's Christian name, 'this is Flight Lieutenant Andrew Foyle, 605 Squadron. Glenda and I are billeted together,' she explains to Andrew.

'Honoured,' Andrew says to Glenda.

'Likewise, I'm sure,' Glenda replies.

Andrew finds her expression hard to read.

Glenda takes over.

'Cadet Officer Samantha Stewart, Hastings Area Command, Mechanised Transport Corps; Staff Sergeant Ira Orloff, 215th Company, United States Army Corps of Engineers.'

Salutes are exchanged.

'Miss Stewart and I already met a couple times, it so happens, right after my company got here,' Sergeant Orloff says. 'Nice to see you again. We heard you were sick.'

'Yes, Sergeant,' Sam replies. 'I had _bronchitis_.'

'Feeling better now, I hope?'

'Very much so, thank you,' says Sam.

'We're really very lucky, Ira,' Glenda tells her beau. 'Sam is _quite_ the best person who could have materialised just now. She's off duty today, to state the blindingly obvious, but she's nevertheless a public safety officer -'

Sam, who has never before heard herself described in this way, glances almost involuntarily at Andrew; he has been returning Sergeant Orloff's curious gaze, but now offers Sam an encouraging smile.

'- and will be able to tell us exactly what we ought to do.'

'Has something happened?' Sam asks, looking back at Glenda.

'There's been an accident,' Glenda explains. 'We've been looking for a constable.'

'Or a phone booth, to call an ambulance,' Sergeant Orloff adds quickly. 'I don't think we need the _police,_ Glenda.'

'What sort of an accident? Where?' Sam asks.

'A woman has fallen down the steps that lead from the West Hill embankment to the Wellington Road,' says Glenda. 'I think that she may have broken her wrist.'

'There's a call box at the corner of George Street and High Street, if I remember rightly,' says Andrew. 'I'll go.'

'The odd thing is, though, she told us she can't remember falling,' Glenda goes on.

'That sounds like she fainted,' Sergeant Orloff puts in.

'We _had_ better have a constable,' Sam says decisively. 'Andrew, I'll take care of that and you can summon an ambulance. Glenda, why don't you and Sergeant Orloff go back to the foot of the steps and tell the woman that help is on the way. We'll meet you there. It's important to immobilize her wrist, if you can, and find some sort of cushion to put under it,' she adds. 'A folded-up tunic might do.'

* * *

Andrew accomplishes his task quickly and makes his way to the foot of the Wellington Road steps. _What did that Yank sergeant mean by '_ We _heard?'_ , he wonders.

Sam's friend and her beau are standing protectively above the injured woman and are talking, not to her but to each other, and just loudly enough for Andrew to overhear as he approaches.

'... put in for a transfer, just last week. That's all I know about it, but -,' the sergeant is saying.

Andrew sees Warrant Officer Lyle put a warning finger to her lips as he approaches. They both turn and look at him, a look of surprise, uncertainty, and, in Orloff's case, suspicion.

' _A great deal of water can pass under a bridge in four months.'  
_ ' _Neither one of us is the same person as we were in April.'_

 _They were expecting to see Sam with somebody else, not with me_ , Andrew thinks.

 _Somebody else._

 _Well, yes. Of course._

* * *

The constable's back is turned as Sam approaches, and her heart sinks when sees who it is. She simply doesn't _like_ PC Peters, though she's at a loss to explain why.

Ignoring this – and Peters' smirk, verging on a leer, as he remarks that he's never seen her in civilian clothing before – Sam explains the situation, emphasising that it's a young woman who's in distress.

* * *

'I wanted to say that when I said it was an honour to meet you, Warrant Officer, I meant it,' Andrew tells Sam's friend. 'I've been one of the night ops pilots that your regiment assists, you see; I suppose that eventually I may be one again. I think that I speak for the entire R.A.F. when I say that we're all extremely grateful for the work that you do.'

Even Orloff looks impressed at this.

'You're very welcome indeed, sir' Warrant Officer Lyle says. 'The honour is ours, really. Where were you stationed then, sir, if I may ask?'

'Here, as it happens. I'm from Hastings. I'm on leave this week.'

'Whaddya do nowadays?' Sergeant Orloff asks, adding 'sir,' hurriedly, after his girl gives him a pointed look.

'Oh, I train other pilots,' Andrew says, with a small shrug.

'Have you known Sam for very long, sir?' Warrant Officer Lyle asks carefully.

'Two years and a month,' Andrew tells them, hoping that this will sink in. _Whomever it was that you thought you'd see with her, I was here first._

The ambulance arrives just seconds before Sam and PC Peters. The woman's wrist is dislocated but not broken. She doesn't seem to have struck her head. The ambulance crew want to take her to hospital so that they can x-ray the rest of her arm, but she refuses.

Peters announces that he'll have to take statements from all of them.

The injured woman's name is Josephine Bow. She says that she is twenty-four. This surprises Sam, who had thought she might be thirty.

'I do not _remember_ falling at _all_ ,' she maintains. 'One moment I was at the head of the steps, the next in a heap down here.'

'Someone pushed you, then, miss?' Peters asks.

'I didn't _feel_ anyone push me.'

'Maybe you fainted,' Sergeant Orloff suggests. 'I was thinking that before.'

'I don't believe so.'

Miss Bow goes on her way, her arm in a sling.

Sam thinks that there is something slightly odd about the woman's speech. She makes all of the other introductions this time, just as formally as before.

'My DCS has the same name as you,' Peters tells Andrew.

'He's my father,' Andrew explains.

More facts are set out: Sergeant Orloff is on a twelve-hour pass; Glenda is off-duty until the following afternoon. They were about to descend the stairs, saw Miss Bow prone at the bottom, went in search of help and met Miss Stewart and Flight Lieutenant Foyle by chance. Andrew is on leave until Sunday; Mr Foyle is in London today and therefore gave Sam the day off.

Peters tells them to contact HQ if they can recall anything more.

'Just because the young lady doesn't remember being pushed doesn't mean that she wasn't.'

* * *

'Well, I _certainly_ never dreamed that my first-ever brush with the long arm of the law would be 3,000 miles from home in a different country!' Sergeant Orloff says, sounding oddly enthused. 'That guy Peters was about ready to arrest me, I think!'

'Don't be silly, Ira,' Glenda replies. 'No one suspects any of _us_ of doing anything wrong!'

Both Sam and Andrew notice the edge her voice. _Glenda and her American admirer must be slightly on the outs_ , Sam decides.

Glenda and Sergeant Orloff wander off, still bickering.

Sam tells Andrew that before she goes to the library she will buy some lunch for herself.

'And I think,' she adds, that I would like to be by myself for a bit.'

'Yes, of course. I understand,' Andrew says, nodding. He has already been given more today than he had expected.

'I need to know something, Andrew.'

'Yes?'

'Have you told _anyone_ else in Hastings _any_ part of what you told me this morning?'

'No. Well, my Dad knows that I did, um, get involved in something classified, and quite dangerous. I told him that some time ago, though.'

'When?'

'In April. I wrote to him just before I wrote to you.'

'You didn't lie to _him_ , then?' Sam asks, with a tinge of anger in her voice.

'No, I didn't actually _lie_. I _did_ ask him to avoid telling you about that letter if he possibly could. He told me last night that _he_ ended up lying to _you_ , telling you that I hadn't written to him at all. I'm terribly sorry, Sam – it never even occurred to me that that would happen. He's quite angry with me about this whole sorry mess I've made, and I deserve that, I know.'

 _He's not the only one who's angry with you_ , Sam thinks. But she says, 'I'm sorry that I snapped at you this morning, Andrew, when you talked about taking me for an aeroplane ride someday. I know how much you love being a pilot. I'm flattered, actually, that you would want to share that with me. I was startled, that's all.'

'I really ought to have told you about that ages ago, when I began thinking about it. It was selfish of me, I suppose, to simply assume that if _I_ love to fly 'planes then _you_ must want to go up with me. _I'm_ sorry, Sam. You're right, I know – we can't simply pick up where we left off. Perhaps we can't _really_ start over from scratch, either, as you said. But there's one thing that we _can_ do.'

'What would that be?'

'We can rebuild,' Andrew insists. 'We can take what we had before, and make something better and stronger out of it. Would you be willing to do that with me, Sam? Or, if you're about to say no, or that you're not sure, then would you at least be willing to let me try to persuade you that it's a good idea?'

'I might be,' Sam replies after a very long silence. They both realise with a start that Andrew has been holding his breath.

'Oh, Sam, thank God,' he says. His voice is shaking again. 'That begs the question, though, of how I'm going to do this, doesn't it? I don't think that evenings out would be the best thing for you at the moment.'

'I'm afraid you're right about that.'

'And last night my father warned me, in rather dire terms, not to try to visit you at the station.'

Sam considers this for a moment.

'I've heard that Constable Peters is _not_ famous for turning in his reports promptly,' she says, 'but if he does manage it today your father will be reading about Miss Bow quite soon.'

'Ah. So he'll know that we were... in the same place at the same time.'

'Exactly. I'll be bringing the car around tomorrow morning as usual,' Sam adds.

'Perhaps I'll see you then.'

'Perhaps you will.'

She wishes him a good day. Asking if he might kiss her good-bye would be too much, Andrew knows. He _will_ have to start over from the beginning, as far as anything like that is concerned.

After Sam has gone Andrew climbs the steps onto the hill and starts walking back to Steep Lane. He is surprised by how tired he feels and by the chill in the air, which he hadn't noticed before. There are park benches at the hill's summit. He sits down on one of them, shivering a bit.

* * *

 _After supper – Off today due to Mr F being in London for meeting of some sort that turned out to take 3/4 of an hour so he returned later today. (Related to burglaries yesterday? Found out later he can't discuss.)  
Woman named Josephine Bow found slightly injured (dislocated wrist) at foot of W. Hill Embankment steps down to Wellington Rd. Apparently fell – or was pushed? Couldn't remember. Looked 30 to me but claimed to be 24. Also, spoke English very well but as if was not her mother tongue. (French, possibly?) Ambulance and police at scene, latter unfortunately PC Peters. (_ _Must_ _try to understand why don't like – because P seems to dislike Milner?) Miss B refused to go to hospital. All had to give statements – Glenda L, her beau Staff Sgt Ira Orloff of USACE (they found Miss B – seem to have been quarrelling) and self and A_

Sam holds her pen above the page for an instant.

 _Andrew. So much for day off._

She stops writing once again, and once again resumes doing so.

 _Long conversation with Andrew this morning. SOE blackmailed him into flying night ops into Czechoslovakia in May. (Joined Communist Party while at Oxford - got fed up and left quickly but someone in HMG must know about it because apparently in his service record.) Says 'someone else' from April letter_ _did __not __exist_ _and was slightly out of his mind – thought he would be killed – made her up so I would not worry and not miss him. Says he is very sorry – spent a great deal of time saying this. Wants to start walking out again. Told him we can't simply start over as though nothing happened. Agreed with this, but wants to 'rebuild' – his word, this. Says he has loved me since we met. Spent a great deal of time saying that as well._

The door to Sam's room is standing open. She hears a sound in the corridor and looks up.

* * *

 **Author's notes:  
** Cadet Officer was the second-lowest rank in the Mechanised Transport Corps (above Driver and below Section Cadet Officer). Canon is vague about Sam's relationship with the MTC after she begins working for the Hastings Police, but I am convinced that _some_ relationship must exist, as she continues to wear the MTC uniform. I also feel confident that she would have advanced slightly by this time, hostile commanding officer or no.

I have exercised a great deal of artistic license in this chapter.

First, lacking military experience, I have had to speculate as to the protocol that would be followed by off-duty commissioned and non-commissioned personnel during a chance encounter – particularly given that three different branches of the armed forces, from two different Allied nations, are represented in this group. This will come up again; readers who know more about the degree of formality that would have been expected in the situations depicted in this story are invited to PM me.

Second, I have attached Glenda to the famous all-female 93rd Searchlight Regiment before it was actually formed (in October 1942), and have posted troops from that regiment in Hastings when they were, in fact, active only on the periphery of metropolitan London.

Finally, in both this and the previous chapter my description of the built environment around Hastings' West Hill is in no small part imaginary.


	9. Chapter 9

'I had no business chewing your head off last night. I apologise,' Foyle tells Andrew that evening.

'There's no need to, Dad. I, um, I deserved it. _I_ apologise for making you lie to Sam – I _never_ intended for you to do that, but it ought to have occurred to me that it might happen.'

'She seems to have come through it all right – although I probably ought to apologise to her as well. It seems you had a rather eventful morning,' Foyle goes on after a moment. 'Rather than the peace and quiet you mentioned, I mean.'

'That's true. The first half of the day didn't go at all as I expected,' Andrew replies.

'Was it better, or worse? Than what you expected, I mean.'

'Oh, better. Not ideal, you understand, but a great deal better than it might have been.' _Where did the streptomycin come from_ , Andrew imagines asking, _and for God's sake why didn't you contact me?_

'Good. I'm glad. I really am, Andrew.'

'I learned something this morning about what you meant when you mentioned water passing under a bridge.' Andrew continues hesitantly. 'Not from Sam. The people we met in the Parade knew her, although only for the past few months, apparently.'

'Mm.'

'Do you... Has Sam... ' Andrew falls silent.

' _If_ I knew anything about what I _think_ you're asking about, then it wouldn't be my place to repeat it, would it?'

'No, of course not, Dad.'

'Tread carefully,' Foyle adds after a pause.

'I fully intend to,' Andrew says. _With both of you._

* * *

'Oh, Sam, I'm _so_ glad- oh, sorry!' Glenda exclaims. She is standing in the door to Sam's room. 'Didn't mean to interrupt!'

'Not at all,' Sam tells her. 'I've run out of things to write anyway.' _Yet another lie._ _I'm just too terrified to write the rest of it._ 'You're still off duty, is that right?'

'Yes, 'til tomorrow afternoon – then I have to supervise a maintenance shift. I thought I'd make an early night of it. I'm glad you're still up, though, Sam. I've been a bit worried about you, you know.'

'Have you really? _I've_ actually been rather concerned about _you!_ Why don't you come in and sit down? We can exchange our worries.'

'Golly, thank you! No, no, please stay where you are,' says Glenda, sitting down on the footstool.

'You begin,' Sam offers.

'Well... look here, Sam, I hope I'm not speaking out of turn, but I've _seen_ bronchitis, in fact I've had it myself, and it doesn't usually _hang on_ the way _your_ case of it seems to be doing. You looked completely knackered when I saw you last evening and you look almost the same way now. Are you _quite_ sure that's _all_ you had?'

'It was a _very_ bad case of bronchitis, tending toward pneumonia – that's what they told me when I was in hospital.' _I'm becoming rather good at this – which is_ horrid!

'It's true, though,' Sam goes on. 'I've been pretty worn out by the end of the day.'

'Why don't you tell me what's worrying _you_ ,' Glenda beckons, 'and then I'll leave you in peace.'

'It's just that I _do_ hope that you're being careful to get enough rest during the day – that's all, really,' Sam explains. 'Long stretches of night duty _aren't_ good for one's health. I've never done that myself, of course, but I _have_ seen, at quite close range, what it can _do_ to a person. It's one's... state of mind that's in danger, as much as anything else,' she sums up.

'That's awfully nice of you to worry about me, Sam,' Glenda replies (looking at Sam rather carefully now, Sam is aware), 'but I'm quite used to it. I've been working nights since I was sixteen.'

Sam feels a faint ripple of anxiety.

'Oh? What was your job in peacetime?' she asks.

'I was in the West End.'

'Were you really?!' Sam exclaims, and sits up straighter. 'How _exciting!_ Are you an actress?'

'Good gracious, of _course_ not! Do I _look_ to you like an actress?' Glenda exclaims. 'No, I used to hang lighting arrays for plays, and then operate them during performances. I _loved_ that! But when the war started I knew right away that I wanted to do my bit.'

'You're the _perfect_ person to run a searchlight crew!'

'Well, it's not quite the same, of course!' Glenda laughs. 'The searchlight is 150 centimeters across – that's nearly five feet! And you're right about night duty, really. Our shift lasts as long as the blackout does. When I worked in the theatre I was usually home by midnight, unless there was a party afterwards or some such. It's been easier duty here than in London, though; we get _two_ nights off after every six nights on duty. In London it was six nights on and only _one_ night off. The jerrys are still shooting at us here, though. _That's_ a problem we don't usually have in the theatre!'

' _Shooting_ at you! But I suppose they would do that, wouldn't they, and try to take out the searchlights.'

'Not just the lights, I'm afraid. One of my radio operators was shot in June.'

'Oh, how awful! Is she... ' Sam trails off, dismayed.

'She's recovering, but I'm afraid she's done with the A.T.S., or arsy-varsy. They had to take off part of her left hand.'

Sam is still digesting this when she realises that Glenda is asking her a question.

'What did _you_ do, Sam, before the war?'

'Nothing, really,' Sam admits. 'Helped my father around the parish – he's a vicar – and looked after my mother, who's a bit of an invalid. It's terribly selfish to say this, I know, but the war really has been a gift to me.'

'You're by no means the only one! I've been serving alongside girls who'd never been more than twenty miles away from their home villages and would have been married to the blacksmith's son by now, if not for the war.'

'Yes, well, that's not _quite_ me, but close enough. My parents were very much against my going at first. And I was still a minor when the war started, so it was quite a problem. I was just like you, wanting to join up and do _something_ straightaway. Fortunately my aunt organized a campaign amongst the family to change their minds.'

'What were they afraid of, though? Or _anyone's_ family, for that matter?' Glenda asks, shaking her head. 'Obviously we're all in some danger doing this – look at what happened to my corporal! But that's true of _everyone_ in wartime, no matter _where_ they are, isn't it?'

'I can remember trying to tell my father something like that,' Sam remarks. 'I think that what all of them were worried about, really, was my... innocence.'

 _Nonplussed_ , Sam thinks: that's the word for the look on Glenda's face as she says this.

'One of my uncles – he's a vicar as well,' she goes on. 'They _all_ are, actually, except for my aunt's husband, who's a sort of gentleman farmer now, but he was an officer in the Scots Guards for twenty-five years – but I remember that my Uncle Aubrey wrote to me about how war corrupts everything it touches, and he didn't want me to be exposed to that. He got behind me in the end, though.'

Glenda, for once, says nothing. _Nonplussed_ , Sam thinks again. _Wrong subject, apparently_.

'Will you go back to the West End after the war?' Sam asks.

'I'd _love_ to, of _course_ – if anyone will remember me there,' Glenda says. What I should _really_ like is to do is to learn is how to _design_ lighting arrays,' she goes on, warming to her subject. 'People don't seem to take that part of it seriously.'

'Perhaps after the war is over you could go to New York and try your luck there,' Sam suggests, smiling. Glenda shifts in her seat and looks down, but Sam presses on. 'How did you meet Sergeant Orloff?'

'At the Pavilion. Three of us went there one Saturday in April, just after the Americans got here, and there were three of _them_ there, and one of them was Ira. Three Yanks trying to order tea – it was _hilarious!_ It was quite crowded, and they invited us to share their table, and... oh, I don't know, Ira and I simply hit it off somehow. He's been going to the theatre since he was a child. That helped, I suppose! And when I lost my old billet in May, he really was _extraordinarily_ kind. But I'm not sure,' Glenda goes on, growing more serious, 'how much longer we'll be able to keep this up. I'm afraid that you and Flight Lieutenant Foyle caught us after a bit of a row.'

'Oh, I'm so sorry.' _Thought so._

'Ira can be _quite ridiculous_ ,' Glenda continues, sounding irritated now. 'Honestly, at times it's as though he and I are fighting in two entirely different wars. _He_ seems unable to see the war in any but _political_ terms. Ira of _all_ people... no, that's all right, thank you, I've got my own.'

Glenda's eyes have filled suddenly, and Sam has gone to her dresser to look for a handkerchief.

'He of all people _ought_ to be able to see that this is a matter of _survival_ , not... not what sort of society we're going to have afterwards!'

Sam feels quite certain that before this morning she would not have understood what Glenda is getting at, but she's rather sure that she does now. _A bit unsettling_ , she thinks, _to have hardly thought about this subject before and_ _ _then_ to hear so much about it in a single day._

'And then of course there are... well, purely _practical_ problems,' Glenda is saying. 'My commanding officer has recommended me for a commission, you see. I've already done the training.'

'But that's wonderful, Glenda!' Sam interjects. ' _My_ commanding officer would _never_ do that for _me_ – if the MTC _had_ proper commissions, of course.'

'Perhaps it's wonderful and perhaps it isn't! It would likely mean being transferred back to London. Please don't misunderstand me, I do _miss_ London, but...' Glenda falls silent.

'But everything's different now,' Sam finishes for her.

'Yes. Thank you. It is! And even if I _were_ to stay in Hastings, I'd be a subaltern and Ira will still be a sergeant. I outrank him even now – though he doesn't seem to mind that, I'll admit.'

'He might come up through the ranks himself,' Sam interjects, wanting to be encouraging.

'Oh, I really _don't_ think so, Sam. He would never want to be so _posh!_ But in any case, Ira's company are here to build a base at Hawthorne Cross, nothing more than that. They're ahead of schedule – Ira thinks they'll be finished with it by the end of November, perhaps even earlier. Then they'll be sent on somewhere to build something else. It could be anywhere at _all_ , and then how shall we ever... I'm sorry, Sam, have I said something?'

The room has seemed to turn upside down, and Sam, without realising it, has shut her eyes against a sick feeling.

 _But that wasn't actually the problem_ , she reminds herself. _I know that now. Though it_ was _perfectly dreadful, and it never became any easier – quite the opposite, in fact – which is why I thought it_ was _the problem._

When the sick feeling has passed and she is certain that the room has righted itself Sam opens her eyes.

'Glenda, I think that I ought to explain what you and Sergeant Orloff saw today.'

'You've no obligation to, Sam,' Glenda answers at once. 'I would _never_ judge you, or _any_ girl! Life is complicated enough in peacetime. War makes this sort of thing that much more difficult, doesn't it? Don't I just know it! Ira's nose _was_ a bit out of joint, that's true, but I think that he was only... _surprised,_ I suppose, seeing you in the company of an officer after he knew you'd been walking out with a private. That's _just_ the sort of thing that _would_ irritate him! Flight Lieutenant Foyle told us – because I asked him – that you and he have known each other for a couple of years. You work for his father, isn't that right?'

'Yes. We wouldn't have met, if not for that.'

'Have you told him about Private Farnetti?' Glenda asks, speaking more hesitantly now.

'No. I broke things off with Joe last month. And I hadn't seen Andrew in a year and a half, until today. There were other things that we needed to discuss.'

Glenda nods in an understanding way.

'Do you love him?' she goes on.

'Do you love Sergeant Orloff?' Sam asks.

'Touché. Point taken, Sam. But lucky me – at least I'm not having to decide about that for the second time.'

* * *

 _Later – Glenda just here. Was right that she and Sgt Orloff were quarrelling – politics, apparently. Thinks they have no future together. Expects to receive commission soon._ _Very_ _excited for her, but G quite nervous about it. Might be sent back to London – really too bad, as am just now getting to know her.  
I believe all of what Andrew told me today.  
Question is really whether I still love him._

Sam closes her diary, then opens it again.

 _Joe came to see me several times in hospital, including once when I was in a very bad way, delirious I think. I thought he was Andrew. Dreamed about this last night, but definitely was Andrew in dream._

* * *

 _That night Sam dreams of the hospital ward. She is the only person there._

 _She sits in the uncomfortable wooden chair by the bed that was once hers. She is free to go. She stands up and walks out of the ward and into the passage._

 _She wears a dress that her mother chose for her during the summer before the war began. It is beautiful but impractical: mostly white, with panels of teal blue at the yoke and the hem. There are white flowers embroidered on the blue parts._

 _As she walks down the passage it seems infinitely longer than what she remembers; like the ward, it is empty. Or nearly so. Someone – Andrew – is walking towards her from the far end._

The alarm clock wakes her.

* * *

 _The door is huge and solid, and locked. Andrew tries to find a bell, but there is none, so he pounds on it and shouts at the top of his lungs to be let in._

 _At great length someone opens the door and stands there, saying nothing and blocking his way._

 _It is essential that he go inside, he tries to explain. He needs to see —_

' _You're neither needed nor wanted here,' this person tells him, and begins swinging the huge door shut._

It is still not quite dawn when Andrew wakes up. The door to his room is standing open; in the half light he sees his father standing just outside.

'Are you quite alright, Andrew?'

'Yes - of course.' Andrew props himself up on his elbows. 'Why?'

'I thought I heard you shouting.'


	10. Chapter 10

WEDNESDAY 2 SEPTEMBER

'Come in, Sam. I'm running a bit behind schedule this morning – I'll be a few more minutes.'

After Mr Foyle disappears up the staircase Sam ventures a bit further into the hall than she has done in the past. From here she can take in enough of the dining room to see that the kitchen door is open, and to hear the sound of breakfast things being put away.

'Good morning,' she calls out softly.

Andrew appears in the kitchen doorway.

'Good morning,' he says, and motions for her to come into the kitchen. She shakes her head, smiling a bit.

'I'm on duty,' she points out.

He takes a few steps into the hall.

'Constable Peters does seem to have got his report in on time yesterday,' he says quietly.

'Thank you. I'll bear that in mind.'

'I think that Dad _may_ have thawed slightly on the subject of me visiting the station. I haven't done that in a couple of years, after all, and I understand that there's a new sergeant running the desk.'

'There is – his name is Brooke. I'm sure he'd be delighted to meet you. Don't be too disappointed if the rest of the team aren't there, though. If a crime is reported we have to go to the site right away.'

'I'll wait for you to come back. I'm on leave, after all. No schedule this week.'

'That sounds rather nice! Although on second thought I tried it for a time last month and ended up not liking it at _all_.'

'Not surprising – I can't imagine that sustained idleness would ever suit you very well!'

'What else are you planning to do today?'

'I'd like to see if I can track down Greville Woods – someone else I've lost touch with. Do you remember him?'

'Of course I do! I even know where you can find him, or could two months ago at least. They won't let you go in, though.'

'Why not?'

'He was transferred to the Special Duties Branch after he recovered,' Sam explains. 'Anne says that he loves it and thinks now that he _ought_ to have been doing this all along – but she has no idea what "this" actually _is_. He's not allowed to tell anyone anything about it, and the place where he works is locked up tighter than a drum, apparently. Beverley Lodge – another requisitioned stately home. Greville has some scar tissue above his right eye and on his chin, and there was some damage to his left hand,' Sam goes on, 'but it isn't nearly as bad as everyone feared. If you do see him, please give him and Anne my best regards.'

'Anne? Oh, of course, Anne Bolton.'

'Anne _Woods_. They were married in April. She left the aircraft factory after Greville's crash – not surprising, really – and she got a job taking photographs for the _Observer_. She's quite a good photographer. They moved to a place in Hollington at the beginning of July, though, and I haven't seen either of them since then.' _Which means_ , it occurs to Sam, _that they don't know about what's happened since then._

'I thought they were going to wait until the war's over!'

'They changed their minds, apparently. I went to the wedding. It was quite fascinating. I'd never been in a register office before.'

' _When_ was this?'

'The eleventh of April. I was planning to write and tell you about it, but... '

They both fall silent.

''Have you thought at all about what we discussed yesterday, Sam?' Andrew ventures.

'I have,' Sam answers him, looking away, 'but I don't yet know _what_ I think about it.'

Andrew is about to say something more when they hear the sound of footfalls on the staircase.

'You're rather quiet this morning, Sam,' Foyle says.

'I'd _like_ to ask you about your meeting yesterday, sir,' she replies, 'but my impression is that you're not meant to talk about it.'

Foyle hesitates. That actually is true; he even had to sign the Official Secrets Act yesterday ( _yet again!_ ), along with everyone else present. On the other hand, Sam already knows about two of the incidents that led to Rose's summons.

'Well,' he replies at last, 'you might be interested to know that those two burglaries on Monday were part of a pattern that began emerging on the south coast last week.'

'Other stationers were burgled? Then it _is_ black-marketers!' Sam exclaims.

'No.'

'Not other stationers, or not black-marketers?'

There is silence from the passenger seat.

'Have you already told me too much, sir?'

'Probably.'

Brooke looks Sam up and down.

'You look very much better today, Miss Stewart, if I do say so myself.'

'Thank you, Brookie.'

'You were a bit peaky when you came in here on Monday, _I_ thought. Gave us all a bit of a turn, too, fading away like that.'

'Sorry – didn't mean to. There was no need for any fuss, though. It wasn't as though I'd _fainted_ or anything like that. I was just... preoccupied.'

'Even so, the extra day off did you some good, I'd say.'

'Yes,' says Sam. 'Yes, I think that it actually did.'

'Don't get yourself too comfortable,' Brooke goes on, just as Sam is sitting down on the waiting area bench. 'Sergeant Milner asked me to tell you he'd like a word.'

'Good morning, Milner. Did you want to speak to me?'

'Good morning, Sam. Come in. Close the door, please. Sit down.'

 _Milner will have read yesterday's report, perhaps even before Mr Foyle did_ , Sam thinks.

'You were meant to be _resting_ yesterday, not traipsing about the West Hill looking for trouble,' Milner tells her.

He looks faintly amused. The report, Sam realizes, is lying open on his desk.

'I _wasn't_ looking for trouble!' she insists. 'I was trying to be _useful_. I met a friend who needed assistance from... someone with public safety experience.'

'Yeah, well, Sam,' says Milner, 'this isn't police business, admittedly, but I think I ought to tell you that Miss Ashford is absolutely horrified that Dr Brindley let you come back to work so quickly.'

'Why? I'm not contagious,' Sam interjects, bristling.

'True enough, but what she says is that you're likely to be vulnerable for a while to anything that might be going 'round, and that the standard convalescence for a case like yours is a full month after being found to be no longer infectious.'

'A _month!?_ I'd go mad!'

'I did try to explain that to her, for whatever that's worth. But the point is that you need to take it easy, Sam.'

'But in that case, why _did_ Dr Brindley tell me I could come back to work?'

'Edith thinks he was being coerced,' Milner tells her, dropping the last pretence of formality, 'and from what she's told me, it may very well have been done by someone known to this department.'

'Are you going to tell me whom?'

'Well... this is pure speculation, but on the 26th of last month -'

'That's the day before I last saw Dr Brindley.'

'I know. First thing on the 26th, Dr Brindley had a visitor in his consulting room, a woman, who doesn't seem to have been a patient,' Milner goes on.

He explains to Sam what Edith told him on Friday.

'Then the visitor told him that the thing to do now was to make things look as normal as possible,' he continues.

'By sending me back to work immediately, you mean?'

'Yes, I suspect that was the idea. At that point the door _was_ shut and Edith didn't hear any more of the conversation.'

'We have no way of _knowing_ whom they were talking about, Milner.'

'That's true. Edith also told me, because I asked her, that Dr Brindley's visitor was around fifty years old, fairly tall, no distinguishing features except brown hair cut _very_ short.'

'Very short,' Sam repeats, 'the way that... '

'And although I _certainly_ didn't put Edith up to it, she did manage to find out that Dr Brindley's first visitor that day was signed in by his secretary as P-E-A-R-C-E, first initial H.'

'Miss Hilda Pierce spells her name P-I-E-R-C-E, I believe,' Sam says cautiously.

'She does. That's right.'

'But that's the sort of mistake that it would be easy to make, wouldn't it – especially first thing in the morning, probably,' Sam goes on. 'Have you told Mr Foyle about this?'

'No, not yet. I last spoke with Edith yesterday morning, and there hasn't been an opportunity,' Milner explains. 'Mr Foyle didn't get here until four o'clock, and left just past five.' _No need to explain why, presumably_.

'Are you _going_ to tell him?'

Milner leans back in his chair.

'I don't know,' he admits. 'As I said, this isn't police business. And as _you_ said, Sam, we really don't _know_ anything about what happened. Still, Mr Foyle's been as concerned about you as anyone else here. What it _sounds_ like, at least, is that the hospital, and your doctor, and you, are being manipulated for... for the sake of the war effort, I suppose. That might be something Mr Foyle ought to know about.'

'Do you suppose the last war was like this, Milner?' Sam asks abruptly. 'Everyone keeping secrets from everyone else, nothing left whose appearance can be trusted?'

'I was only a child, Sam,' Milner answers, surprised. 'If it changed the way people behaved towards one another – I really wasn't aware of that part of it. You'd have to ask someone who was old enough to understand what was happening.'

'Yes, of course. I'm sorry – what a ridiculous question!'

'No, not at all. I know what you mean. Maybe this is simply how war _is_.' He looks at Sam for a moment and adds, 'You look better than you did on Monday.'

'Thank you. I think that I _am_ better than I was on Monday. Traipsing about in the fresh air must have done me some good.'

Milner taps the first two fingers of his right hand on the report, closes the folder and smiles at Sam.

'That and other things, probably,' he says.

Sam is still considering how best to answer this when there is a knock at the door. She gets up and opens the door to see Brooke.

'There's a bloke here with a telegram for you, Miss Stewart,' he tells her.

'Close the door as you go, would you, please, Sam?'

Milner's telephone has begun to ring.

Sam has never received a telegram in her life, and in fact has sent only one, to her parents on arriving in Hastings three years ago. _A telegram could just as easily be bad news as good_ , she thinks nervously.

'Who's it from?' she asks.

'Dunno, miss,' says the boy.

She takes the telegram from him and gives him tuppence. Brooke hands her a letter opener and she slits the envelope open.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

POST OFFICE  
TELEGRAM

264 8.04 BRIGHTON A 22

MISS SAMANTHA STEWART IN C/O HASTINGS POLICE BOHEMIA ROAD HASTINGS EAST SUSSEX

VISITING BRIGHTON ON WI BUSINESS ARRIVING HASTINGS 2.10 PM COACH BOOKED ONE NIGHT ROYAL VICTORIA WILL TELEPHONE UPON ARRIVAL  
ALL BEST A BRAITHWAITE

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

'My aunt's coming to visit – _today!_ ' Sam exclaims.

'Well, that'll be nice!' says Brooke. 'Will she come here, to the station? Maybe she'd like to see where you're doing your bit.'

'I don't know! She says that she'll telephone when gets to Hastings. We'll see. Brookie,' Sam goes on, 'may I see that dictionary again?'

 _9.30 –_ _Coerce_ _(co-_ _urse_ _) v.t. To persuade an unwilling person to do something by the use of force or threats; to obtain something through the use of force or threats.  
Milner says Sister Ashford from hospital thinks Dr Brindley let me come back to work this week because was being coerced by someone, possibly woman who visited him at hospital on 26th, who was signed in H. __Pearce_ _and fit description of Miss_ _Pierce_ _(at least her hair). (M walking out with Sister A? If so, good for him.)  
Dreamed of Andrew at hospital again last night – different dream than previous night – but woke up before ended so don't know how it would have come out. Still don't know what I should do.  
Aunt Amy sent telegram to say she is coming to Hastings today – just overnight, unfortunately. Very good timing – could definitely stand to talk things over with her or at least ask her some questions._

Milner interrupts her.

'Sam? We're wanted in Mr Foyle's office.'

'Yesterday in London I had to sign the Official Secrets Act again,' Mr Foyle tells them. 'The briefing that I was summoned to was classified. And it really was no more than that – a briefing. But it concerned something that _both_ of you have been privy to, and it may have an effect on some of the Department's actions in the near future – although I hope _not_ – so I think that I'll have to take matters into my own hands and fill you in to some degree.

'Sam,' he goes on, 'last week, on Thursday and Friday, there were a rash of burglaries of offices and businesses on the South Coast, all west of here. Several typewriters were stolen, including one that can be used to type directly into a blank book.'

'Like a ration book, sir?'

'Yes, it could be used for that. There was also an attempted burglary of a stationer's shop.'

'And are these incidents thought to be connected to the burglaries in Hastings on Monday, sir?'

'They're essentially _known_ to be.'

'It sounds as though someone is planning to forge documents, sir.' _Not ration books, though_ , Sam thinks. _Passports. Identity cards._

'Good for you, Sam – that seems to be exactly what _is_ happening. And yesterday I was quite reliably informed that all of these crimes were, if perhaps not _commissioned_ by, then most definitely carried _out_ with the tacit approval, at least, of, um, a Government organisation.'

Sam and Milner exchange a glance.

'And why would a Government organisation feel the need to do that, sir?' Milner asks.

'Well, resources are very scarce and competition for them within the Government is quite fierce. And it seems that one office have decided to work around that problem by procuring the equipment and materials it needs by, um, allowing some of the people they've trained to practice their skills.'

'And we're being instructed simply to look the other way?' Sam is unsure whether she ought to be outraged or horrified, or both.

'Precisely,' Foyle says, ignoring the fact that Sam has once again inserted herself into the department. 'There'll be no further investigation of Monday's burglaries,' he tells Milner. 'It seems they were part of the war effort.'

There is silence for a few seconds.

'Sir,' Milner says, 'Edith Ashford has been keeping me informed about some things that have happened recently at the hospital. It isn't police business, but in light of what you've just told us I think that you might want to know what she's told me.'

He relates the tale of Dr Brindley's visit from a woman who might – or might not, as Sam points out – have been Miss Pierce, and their conversation about a female patient who might – or might not – have been Sam.

'And Miss Ashford telephoned just half an hour ago, sir,' he goes on, 'with the news that Brindley's _gone_ – handed in his resignation late last night, it seems.'

'Just like that? Where's he going, I wonder?' Mr Foyle responds.

'Miss Ashford didn't know, and apparently nobody else at the hospital does either.'

 _10.20 –_ _Tacit_ _. adj. Understood or implied without being stated.  
If anyone asks about Xmas gift, will request dictionary._

There is a report of vandalism and possible looting at one of the houses damaged in the air raid on 22 August. With that exception the day passes quietly.

After lunch Sam has an idea, although it feels almost like a premonition.

'Sir? Everyone has been telling me that I look much better today than I did no Monday' – that 'everyone' consists of Brookie, Milner and Mrs Threadgill in the canteen is beside the point, it seems to her – 'and I think that getting some fresh air yesterday was very helpful.'

'And?' Mr Foyle asks, looking up.

'Would you mind if I were to go outside? I won't go far – only into the drive. If anyone needs me, they can just call for me from the front door.'

Foyle looks at Sam for a long moment.

'I only want to stretch my legs a bit, sir,' Sam says.

'All right,' he tells her, and then adds, 'Tread carefully.'

'I _always_ do that, sir.'


	11. Chapter 11

Sam walks along the eastern half of the crescent-shaped drive to where it meets Bohemia Road, crosses to the western half, walks part of the way back to the station, then retraces her steps to the road. When Andrew rounds the road's curve he can see Sam plainly.

'What are you doing out here, Sam?' Andrew asks when reaches the entrance to the drive.

'Stretching my legs and getting some fresh air – everyone seems to think that did me a world of good yesterday.'

'Even my Dad?'

'He didn't offer an opinion – but he didn't object, either. I'm also waiting to see my aunt, though. She sent me a telegram this morning. She's been in Brighton on Women's Institute business and is coming here to visit – just overnight, unfortunately.'

Andrew wants to ask if Sam isn't also waiting for _him_ , but thinks better of it.

'May I wait with you?'

'Yes – if you like. She said that she would telephone,' Sam continues, 'but I suspect that she'll simply come here from her hotel. My Uncle Michael thinks the telephone is a nuisance and won't have one in the house, so she's not in the habit of using it.'

'Is this the black sheep aunt, who married into the Army instead of the Church and organized the campaign to persuade your parents to let you join the MTC? And she and your uncle have a farm in Hampshire, yes?'

'The very one,' Sam says, and she smiles, pleased and surprised. The last time she mentioned Aunt Amy and Uncle Michael to Andrew must surely have been in 1940.

A fat stone obelisk with _Hastings Constabulary_ carved into it marks each side of the drive. The one that faces southeast has a small ledge, wide and deep enough for two people to sit on. They sit down on it now, side by side, not touching.

'They're in a place called Red Rice, aren't they?' Andrew asks. 'An unforgettable name for a village! Where in Hampshire is that, though?'

'Near Andover, in the western part of the county – almost in Wiltshire.'

'When I left Debden in January I was sent first to _eastern_ Hampshire for several weeks, to learn, oh, the strategic part of it.'

'Hill House, in Leavenham,' Sam suggests.

'How did you know _that_ , Sam?'

'I told you yesterday,' she reminds him, 'we've been in communication from time to time with the people who... run the place. And I know Leavenham rather well, actually,' she goes on.

'Oh, I _know_ that you do! That part was fairly miserable. I _did_ attend church there, Sam – it made a change of scene, you know – but under the circumstances I couldn't quite go up and introduce myself to your uncle. "Hullo, Mr. Stewart, I'm in love with your niece, but she mustn't on _any_ account know that I'm here – _no one must know that I'm here._ "'

Sam turns her head away as Andrew says this last part, but then turns to look at him again.

'It would have made a change for Uncle Aubrey as well, I'm sure! When your father and I were there last year he seemed _quite_ uneasy about the people at Hill House. I _am_ glad you found a good use for your spare time, though.'

They both laugh softly.

'I learned something interesting today,' Sam goes on. 'The day sister from when I was in hospital – it seems she thinks that the doctor who cared for me oughtn't to have released me to come back to work so quickly.'

'I wouldn't entirely disagree with that, Sam.'

'Well, she told Milner – he and Sister Ashford grew up together, apparently, and I think that they're walking out. In any case, she told him that on the day before I was cleared Dr Brindley quarreled with a visitor to the hospital.'

She repeats what she learned from Milner that morning, ending with Dr Brindley's sudden departure. Andrew listens uneasily.

'If that _was_ Miss Pierce -' he begins. 'I wonder what it is she knows about _him_ , that she could compel him to do that,' he goes on.

'I was thinking the very same thing! It's quite unsettling, isn't it, to think that a _few_ people in this country know _so_ much about so _many_ of their fellow subjects, and are able and willing to _use_ what they know to... ' Sam trails off.

'To control them for their own ends,' Andrew finishes for her.

'Well... for the war effort. It's for the greater good – isn't it?'

'I really can't see how the greater good can involve the deaths of hundreds, or perhaps even thousands, of innocent civilians who are suffering under occupation by a Fascist power.' Andrew speaks very quietly. There is a bitter edge in his voice.

Sam nods.

'I used to think that it would be terribly glamorous and exciting to be a spy,' she remarks.

'It isn't,' Andrew says flatly. 'There's nothing glamorous about fear, and the only excitement it offers is unpleasant.'

It occurs to Sam that she has just confided in Andrew – not told him a secret as she did yesterday, but simply shared a part of herself – just as easily as she used to do, and that although writing letters became difficult after a while, the two of them have never had the slightest trouble finding things to _talk_ about.

 _It was never this way with Joe_ , she thinks.

Joe had never seemed interested in much more than having a pleasant time in her company. Somewhat to her surprise, he had never tried to put his hands anywhere that they didn't belong. Other girls at Mrs Hardcastle's – though not Glenda, Sam has noticed – have reported quite different experiences walking out with American soldiers.

He had quickly formed an idea of what Sam was like and seemed unconcerned with learning anything more about her. He _had_ told her about his family and what he did before being called up – drafted, as he put it – but only when she asked him, and never at any length. He never had shown any interest in hearing anything about her family or her life before the war – unlike Andrew, who seems to have committed her family tree to memory.

The afternoon has grown warm. Sam has put her hands palm down, one on each side of her, on the cool stone ledge. Her left hand lies in the space between herself and Andrew.

Andrew moves his right hand just close enough to let his fingers rest atop hers. He feels the same electrical charge that has always come from touching Sam, different than what he used to feel with other girls; feels the muscles in her hand contract, then relax; and hears her inhale sharply, then exhale. She does not move her hand.

'Did you see Greville today?' she asks.

'I didn't actually _see_ him – you were quite right about Beverley Lodge! They deigned to let me speak with him on the telephone, though. He seems very happy, just as you said – a man of many talents, it seems. It's a real relief to know that, even though he wouldn't tell me anything about what he does now. I felt guilty last year, gallivanting off to Debden while he was still in the burn hospital.'

'That wasn't _your_ choice, and in the end it all worked out for the best,' Sam points out. Then she adds, more seriously, 'It worked out well for Greville, at any rate.'

She turns her left hand over so that her palm faces upward and closes her fingers over his, pushing them onto her palm as she does so, then opens her hand again. He lets his fingers rest there.

'Is that your aunt walking up the road?'

'Oh, yes! Yes, it is!' Sam exclaims. She leaps to her feet and goes over the road, running, to meet Aunt Amy.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

'Oh, how _wonderful_ to see you!' Sam says. 'I've just sent you and Uncle Michael a letter to thank you for the diary, but it's _much_ nicer to be able to thank you in person.'

'And to _be_ thanked in person, I assure you! Let's get a look at you, my dear girl. Bronchitis,' Aunt Amy says thoughtfully, 'severe enough to send you to hospital for the better part of a fortnight! But you don't look _too_ bad.'

'Thank you, Aunt Amy.'

Aunt Amy looks past Sam and across Bohemia Road.

'That airman standing in front of the police station appears to be waiting for you,' she observes. 'Are you going to introduce us?'

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

'Aunt Amy, this is Flight Lieutenant Andrew Foyle. My aunt, Mrs Braithwaite,' Sam goes on, turning to Andrew.'

Mrs Braithwaite smiles, but Andrew can feel himself being sized up.

'It's an honour to meet you, Flight Lieutenant, I'm _sure_ ,' says Mrs Braithwaite.

'Likewise, absolutely, Mrs Braithwaite,' Andrew replies. _Sam has told me a great deal about you_ , he is about to go on, but a look from Sam stops him.

'And what is your assignment?' Mrs Braithwaite goes on.

'I flew ops out of Hastings for a time, and now I train other pilots. I've been based in Debden since early last year. I'm on leave this week.'

'Very good! My stepdaughter is in the WAAF,' she tells him. 'Flight Officer Laura Braithwaite. She's stationed at Great Paxton, though, in Cheshire, so I don't imagine you've come across her.'

'I was there earlier this year!' Andrew exclaims before he can stop himself. _Blast!_ 'I, um, I had a sabbatical of sorts from my teaching duties, and was sent up there for several weeks to, um, to receive some additional training myself. Sam _has_ told me about your stepdaughter, but I'm afraid I'd forgotten that that's where she is, and I don't recall meeting her. What is her assignment?'

'Training Command – in a nutshell, she's a sort of housemistress for the newly called-up. And of course it's an _awfully_ big base, so it's hardly surprising that you and she didn't cross paths. How do you and my niece happen to know one another?' she goes on.

'I work for Andrew's father,' Sam puts in quickly.

The fact is that she has never told anyone in her family about Andrew, _and now is hardly the time_ , she thinks.

'Ah – I _thought_ the name _Foyle_ sounded familiar!'

'I ought to be pushing off, really,' Andrew says.

'You haven't met Sergeant Brooke yet!' Sam points out.

'There's tomorrow for that,' Andrew says.

'Oh – yes, well, of course.'

'Thank you for passing the time with me, Sam, and again, I'm delighted to meet you, Mrs Braithwaite,' he goes on, adding, 'I hope we'll see each other again.'

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

'I've arranged for supper for the two of us to be brought up to my hotel room, so we can have a good chat _in private_ ,' Aunt Amy tells Sam as they walk up the drive, after Andrew has left. 'I think it's _high time_ that we did that, my dear girl.'

Sam can only nod in agreement.

They don't say so – no point in embarrassing Sam, after all – but everyone who sees Sam and her aunt together that afternoon is struck by their resemblance. Mrs Braithwaite's eyes are grey rather than brown, and it would be hard to guess now what colour her hair might once have been; but if Sam takes decent care of herself and with a bit of luck, all of them think, this is what she'll look like in three or four decades.

'Mr Foyle, my niece has told me many times how fortunate she feels to be doing war her service with the Hastings Police,' Aunt Amy says.

'I remember being told that someone named Sam Stewart had been pulled in from the MTC – at that point I didn't know what the MTC _was_ ,' Foyle admits. 'I was pretty thunderstruck, I suppose, when your niece showed up. But she very wisely ignored that. We're all very grateful that Sam is here, Mrs Braithwaite, and not only because I don't drive.'

'Thank you, sir,' Sam puts in.

'Sam has also told me quite a bit about you and everyone else here in her letters, Mr Foyle,' Aunt Amy goes on, 'but it has been three long years since she and I have actually _seen_ one another, and although I have been in Hastings for only the past two hours it has become _quite clear_ that we have a _great deal_ of catching up to do.'

Sam can feel herself blushing; mercifully, Mr Foyle doesn't look at her.

'To that end,' Aunt Amy continues, 'I wonder if I might borrow her for the rest of the afternoon.'

'I think that would be feasible,' says Mr Foyle. "I actually _was_ planning to walk home on Monday, but when it began raining Sam insisted on driving me. I'll do it tonight – ought to make up the exercise I missed.'

'Your father had pretty good things to say about this hotel after he stayed here a couple of years ago,' Aunt Amy notes as she and Sam arrange themselves around the small table in her room, 'but I suppose it simply isn't possible to vouch for the food _anywhere_ these days.'

'They were serving fish cakes then,' Sam recalls. 'Aunt Amy, I know that you want me to tell you about everything that I've been doing, but I wanted to ask _you_ something, as well, if I may.'

'Of _course_ , Sam!'

'Was the last war like this one?'

'In what way do you mean?'

'Nothing left that actually _is_ what it _looks_ like, everyone keeping secrets from everyone else, but _lying_ about it instead of just saying "I'm sorry – I can't discuss this?"'

'Oh, _dear_ ,' Aunt Amy begins, but just then there is a knock at the door.

Supper proves to be poor man's goose and boiled cabbage, with carrot pudding for the sweet course. Only after the waitress has served it out and left the room does Aunt Amy take up Sam's question.

'I'm afraid you'd have to ask someone who was actually _in_ the last war about that. All _I_ did was to roll bandages and knit!' she says. 'It's true that people were _very_ wary of spies in our midst, and whenever your Uncle Desmond and your Uncle Alexander Buchanan – _if_ you can think of him that way, since you never knew him.'

'But he was Alex and Teddy's father, of course,' Sam notes loyally of her aunt's first husband, who had survived the war to end all wars without a scratch only to die of influenza a few months after its end.

'Precisely! In any case, _they_ wouldn't talk about the war, but _I_ always thought that was because they couldn't _bear_ to. I never had any reason to think that either of _them_ was involved in intelligence. So no need for _lying_ , I suppose.'

Aunt Amy looks thoughtfully at her niece for a moment.

'Tell me, Sam,' she goes on, 'have you forgiven him?'

 **Author's notes:**  
I was unable to pinpoint the war-era location of the Hastings police station while researching this story. After I published this chapter, rosalindfan kindly pointed me to _Court in the Act_ , by Victoria Seymour (Hastings: by the author, 2004), which states that the location was the Hastings Town Hall, a magnificent Victorian pile whose location at a busy Queen's Road intersection (crossroads) unfortunately doesn't suit my purposes. The current station is at the end of a cul-de-sac on the northeast side of Bohemia Road, opposite and slightly northwest of Magdalen Road, with a large parking area in front – a much larger and newer building than the one that first appears in "The Russian House." I have decided to work from the fiction that the pre-1945 building stood on or near the site of the current station, perhaps closer to the road, with parking in the rear.  
Conscription of women in the U.K. began in December 1941 with single women and childless widows aged 20 to 30. In 1943 this was expanded to include women from 18 to 43 – or even 50, for those who had served in World War I. Depending on her educational level and perceived skills, a woman might be assigned to one of the armed forces auxiliaries or to some type of civilian war work, including the MTC.  
A recipe for poor man's goose can be found at the website _Home Sweet Home Front_.


	12. Chapter 12

'I'm _sorry?_ ' is the only reply Sam can bring herself to make at first.

'Don't let's dissemble, dear,' Aunt Amy says kindly. 'Your Uncle Michael and I _had_ begun to wonder why you've never told us about some upstanding young man who had entered your life. I still don't know _why_ I haven't heard of him before today, but it's abundantly clear now who he _is_. That young man you introduced to me – Flight Lieutenant Foyle. He looks at you as though you were the full moon and the North Star rolled into one. I _think_ we can assume that you're not unresponsive to his feelings – or _weren't_ , at any rate. The question is, have you forgiven him for lying to you?'

'I don't know if I _ought_ to,' Sam admits.

'About _what_ did he lie to you?'

'I'm sorry, Aunt Amy,' Sam says after a moment. 'I'm not free to tell you. I'm not meant to know that myself, although I _do_ , now.'

'Ah, I see! Hence your question about about the last war! And if you are not _meant_ to know about... whatever it was, then how _do_ you know – if I may ask?'

'Andrew explained it to me yesterday. He wants... to set things right between us. To _rebuild_ – that's the word he used. Well, he wants us to begin walking out again. Your guess was spot on, Aunt Amy.'

Sam sits up a bit straighter, as if she were about to explain a question of first aid or map-reading, and begins to relate their history.

'I met Andrew just over two years ago. Part of my job is to collect Mr Foyle at his house each morning, and one day Andrew answered the door. I wasn't very impressed at first, although I think I was rather _determined_ not to be.'

'And what about _him?_ '

'He says that he's loved me ever since we met, but didn't understand his own feelings at first. That's another thing he told me yesterday.'

'A cynic would no doubt dismiss that as seductive guff,' Aunt Amy remarks. 'Possibly it _is_ that – but on the other hand it would be _quite_ a mistake to underestimate the capacity of _any_ member of the male sex to be confused by his own emotions, especially when they are new.'

'In any case, we started walking out a couple of months later, and then a few months after _that_ he was transferred to Debden, in Essex,' Sam goes on, skipping over details that at best seem unnecessary and at worst might be alarming. 'Neither of us understood at first how far away that is – terribly _isolated_ , actually, and his group captain seems to have been quite a tyrant. This is the first time in a year and a half that Andrew has had more than a _day's_ leave! I hadn't seen him since then, until Tuesday.'

'But that's _awful!_ ' Aunt Amy exclaims. 'The man ought to be court-martialed! That commanding officer, I mean – not your young man, of course.'

'It was _very_ hard, especially as Andrew seems to think he isn't any any good at teaching – I suspect he's wrong, but the _point_ is that he felt he was no longer being useful to anyone and was quite unhappy.'

'So he took on some mission that it wasn't permissible to discuss with you, and lied to you about it because... '

'Because it really was _very_ dangerous, and he didn't want me to worry about him – or to grieve for him if he... didn't come back.'

'I _don't_ care for the sound of _that!_ What _ever_ did he _tell_ you?'

'That he'd met another girl.'

'Oh, dear,' Aunt Amy sighs. 'And I suppose you had no choice but to believe him.'

'I'm sorry I never told you about Andrew, Aunt Amy,' Sam replies, 'but in a way that's precisely _why_ I didn't. It seems awfully hard to keep a secret in our family, and I really _didn't_ want Dad and Mother to know. They'd only have begun waiting for something to go wrong, and something _did_ go wrong. Andrew chose the right thing to tell me. He... walked out with a _lot_ of girls before me. It was quite plausible, really.'

Aunt Amy is silent for a bit.

' _When_ did Flight Lieutenant Foyle tell you this? How old is he, by the by?'

'In April. He's twenty-four.'

'And how have you been consoling yourself since then, if I may ask?'

'I _did_ meet someone else, actually.'

In the vaguest terms she can summon – because while she doesn't know what Aunt Amy thinks about Americans, she is _certain_ that _no_ relation of hers would approve of her taking up with an enlisted man – Sam tells her aunt about Joe, omitting his marriage proposal from her tale. Better to err on the side of discretion.

'That ended... a few weeks ago,' she continues. ' _I_ ended it. The fact is that I let it go on for too long. I didn't love him – I don't think that I ever even _thought_ that I did. He was just... '

'He was simply _there_ , precisely when you needed a distraction from your troubles,' Aunt Amy finishes for her. 'Unfortunate, but understandable. I hope he took it like a gentleman?'

'Oh, yes. He even sent me a card for my birthday, with a very nice note!'

'And what about your airman? No. Wait a moment. Sam, I've no wish to be indelicate, much less to pry into your _most_ private business, but if I'm to give you any useful advice it _would_ be helpful to know just how far either of these courtships progressed.'

Sam is confused, then uneasy.

'Andrew and I have never discussed marriage,' she begins hesitantly.

'That _isn't_ what I'm referring to, Sam,' Aunt Amy replies. 'Oh, now, don't look so shocked. Each generation thinks that _it_ has invented this problem, and each generation is wrong. I joined the Army Nursing Service _forty-three years ago_ , and the _only_ thing that's changed since then is that it's become _somewhat_ easier to avoid getting caught. Well?'

'No – of course not!'

'There's no "of course" about it, dear girl – particularly in wartime, I might add. You said that Flight Lieutenant Foyle explained matters to you on the day before yesterday. Do you believe what he told you then?'

'Yes. Yes, I do.'

'Did you love him before the enforced separation that you endured?'

'Oh, yes.'

'Do you love him now?'

'Yes,' Sam answers, without hesitating.

'Your difficulties, which appear to have been in no small part _his_ difficulties, seem to have begun _after_ he was transferred away from here and you were unable to see one another. Do you love him enough to take the risk that the same thing will happen again?'

'Oh! We wouldn't have worry about that.' _More official secrets_ , Sam thinks before plunging ahead. 'He's being transferred back to Hastings. The Debden airbase is being handed over to the American forces later this month, and Andrew's training squadron is moving here.'

'That sounds _very_ much like something that oughtn't to be repeated,' Aunt Amy observes. 'Did Flight Lieutenant Foyle tell you this?'

'No – that is, he wasn't the first. Mr Foyle told me on Monday morning. You're quite right – it's a secret. Andrew must have felt that he _had_ to tell his father that he was returning here, and why. Mr Foyle knows about me and Andrew. We tried to keep it from him, but he put two and two together after a while, and when I got Andrew's letter in April I _did_ tell Mr Foyle about _that_. He also knows that I broke things off with Joe last month, as it happens, and... well, he said that he didn't want me to find out accidentally that Andrew is back in Hastings.'

'Do you believe _now_ , Sam, that this young man loved you at the time of his departure for Debden?'

'Yes, absolutely.'

'And do you believe that he still loves you?'

'Yes, I do.'

'Well then, I shall repeat my question: do you love him enough to take the risk that something like what what happened the first time you were forcibly separated will happen when you are separated again? There's no need for you to answer the question here and now, but that _is_ what you need to ask yourself. This is a _war_ , after all. Flight Lieutenant Foyle's new posting to Hastings may prove temporary. He might be sent as far as Castletown. He might be sent overseas.'

'Well... what if I _do_ , Aunt Amy?'

'Then I think that your path is laid out for you, my dear – and that you should count yourself fortunate! Most people go through life without ever experiencing such depth of feeling.'

'Oughtn't I to have a clear _reason_ for loving him, though? I don't, really. Andrew is _very_ interesting, of course, and I was thinking just this afternoon that we _always_ seem to find something to talk about, without any trouble at all. We make each other laugh. He... he understands me, I think, and... I don't quite know how to explain this. He takes me seriously. When I told him about having to leave school when I was fourteen, he was actually rather _angry_ about it! He said it was a waste of an excellent mind!'

' _Most_ perceptive of him!' Aunt Amy interjects.

'But he can be awfully selfish at times – just thoughtless, really,' Sam goes on.

'Do you know someone who _can't?_ I'd _quite_ like to meet _that_ individual! I got a late start at all of this, Sam – I was _ten years_ in the Service and the QAs – but when I met Sandy Buchanan we fell headlong in love – not at first sight, perhaps, but not long afterwards, either. There was no _question_ of looking back – or of refusing his proposal, when it came – but if you'd asked me _why_ I loved him, I'd have been quite as much at a loss as you were just now. I _had_ no particular reason. Reason will take us only so far in these matters – we don't have the privilege of _choosing_ whom we love. I _don't_ suggest that you should assume that you and your airman will be together, even just in spirit, for the rest of your lives. But _if_ you believe that he loves you, and _if_ you love him enough to risk losing him, then I think that you would be ill-advised, to say the least, to simply reject his suit.'

Sam is silent for a moment, reflecting on this.

'Did you... ' she begins shyly. 'Did you enjoy being married to Major Buchanan?'

'Very, very much,' Aunt Amy replies. 'Of course we quarreled from time to time. _No_ two people can avoid _that_. And it's true that we had only ten years together – not even quite _that_ long – and that for a significant part of that time he was away at the Western Front, and there was nothing I could do for him then but to worry and pray. But I have never, _ever_ regretted marrying him, and I never _would_ have married him if I hadn't trusted my instincts.'

'Did the family like him?'

'Not at first. That posed a challenge, I'll admit. Of course, by _that_ time your grandparents had given up hope that I would marry at all! Still, they had assumed that if I ever _did_ marry, I would plight my troth with a clergyman like your grandfather and great-grandfathers. My choice came as _quite_ a shock to them – but they got used to it. Do eat your sweet, Sam,' Aunt Amy continues. 'I hope that those fish cakes you had here two years ago were better than this poor man's goose, but the carrot pudding is really quite good.'

* * *

Sam arrives at Mrs Hardcastle's to find everyone who lives in the house, including Mrs Hardcastle herself, gathered in the sitting room, seated or standing about very, very quietly.

' _Sam!_ Where on earth have you _been?_ We've been _waiting_ for you!' This from Helen Jones, a tiny, bespectacled Wren petty officer.

'My aunt is visiting from Hampshire,' Sam explains. 'I had supper with her. But _why_ have you been waiting for me? What's the matter?'

'Do calm down, Helen!' says Penelope Robinson. 'Glenda got something in the afternoon post, Sam. It's rather important-looking, and she's refusing to open it until _all_ of us are here.'

Glenda is sitting in one of Mrs Hardcastle's easy chairs. She is pale and solemn and almost completely still. There is a large buff-colored envelope in her lap.

'I know what this is, I'm almost certain,' she explains in a small voice. 'I just... '

She falls silent.

'If it _is_ important, then the sooner you open it, the better,' Helen says, more calmly now.

'Quite right, Glenda,' says Sam.

'Yes,' Glenda agrees. She picks up the envelope and starts to slide her index finger under the flap.

'No, wait, Miss Lyle, use this,' Mrs Hardcastle urges. She offers Glenda a bone letter-opener, the handle carved in the form of a rabbit. Glenda stands up to take it from her and doesn't sit back down.

'I think we should _all_ stand,' Sam says. 'This is going to change Glenda's life.'

'Do you know what it is, then, Sam?' Felicity Prothero, who is standing next to her, asks in a whisper.

'I think so,' Sam whispers back.

Glenda walks over to the small desk that stands against the wall and shakes the envelope's contents out onto it: two rank pips to be sewn onto epaulets and two pieces of paper. One is a typewritten letter on Ministry of Defence stationery. The other is an engraved certificate, blank spaces carefully filled in by hand (the penmanship is exquisite, Sam notices), with the name _Glendora Katharine Lyle_ clearly visible and **George the Sixth** emblazoned at the top.

'It's an officer's commission,' Glenda says unsteadily. 'I'm a second subaltern now.'

Cheering breaks out. Penelope, a WAAF sergeant, and Helen stand at attention and salute before joining in.

The cheering comes to an abrupt halt.

'Oh, Glenda!' someone says.

'Oh, no!' says someone else.

Glenda is a rather small woman, shorter than Sam and fine-boned. The _thud_ she makes when she falls to the floor in a dead faint is surprisingly loud.

* * *

 **Author's notes:  
** For the curious, here is how I have calculated Andrew's age:  
1) We can safely ignore his father's statement in "The German Woman" (May 1940) that he has a 23-year-old son, given the circumstances under which that statement is made.  
2) If Andrew actually _was_ just eight years old when his mother died, as he states in "The Funk Hole," and assuming that that did in fact occur in February 1932, as we are told in "Enemy Fire," then he would be _no more than 17_ at the time of "The German Woman," which would be silly. (I don't _like_ to ignore canon, but sometimes there's no choice.)  
3) In "Among the Few" we learn that Andrew is 22 in September 1940 – reliable information at last! – making it most likely that he was born sometime between October 1st, 1917 and August 31st, 1918.  
4) Thus, Andrew would be 24 at the time of this story.  
This has some interesting implications. For one thing, it suggests that Andrew might already have his degree in hand when he leaves Oxford to begin his pilot training. Perhaps, having done very well indeed as an undergraduate, he was made a fellow of his college, and that fellowship is what he is disinclined to take up again when he considers his options in "All Clear."

The United Kingdom's Army Nursing Service, organized in 1881, was succeeded in 1902 by Queen Alexandra's Imperial Military Nursing Service (the QAs).


	13. Chapter 13

'Would someone please open a window?' Sam asks.

'The blackout's begun,' says Penelope.

'Drat! Then would you... I don't know, fan her, please? No, not with your hands, that won't move enough air. Why don't you use that envelope? That's good.'

Glenda opens her eyes.

'You _fainted_ ,' Helen tells her, sounding slightly shocked.

'How embarrassing,' Glenda remarks.

'I'm trying to get the blood to flow back into your brain,' Sam tells her cheerfully, having lifted the subaltern's feet into the air, 'and then we'll let you sit up.'

'Glenda, did you eat any supper?' Felicity asks.

'Yes – well, a little bit. I wasn't hungry.'

'I think tea might be more useful than food just now,' says Penelope.

'I'd agree with that,' says Sam.

'Here's some tea, Miss Lyle,' Mrs Hardcastle chirps, emerging from the kitchen, 'with Lyle's Golden Syrup in your honour.' Glenda grimaces faintly. 'Erm, where shall I put this?' Mrs Hardcastle goes on.

'Why don't you put it on the desk, Mrs Hardcastle?' Sam suggests. 'Thank you _so_ much. Glenda, let's see if we can get you to sit up. Felicity, could you please help us? _Very_ slowly, now!'

The tea is brought to Glenda while she is still sitting on the floor. After a few minutes she announces that she feels steady enough to stand up and walk a few steps to the divan.

'Do you want anything more to eat, Miss Lyle?' Mrs Hardcastle asks – in an almost motherly voice, to the girls' surprise. 'Perhaps a slice of toast?'

'From the National Loaf? No, thanks _very_ much!'

Everyone laughs, even Mrs Hardcastle.

'What I'd _really_ like is to go up to my room,' Glenda goes on. 'What with one thing and another I've actually had a rather long day.'

* * *

'I was always taught _never_ to sit on my bed,' Glenda remarks, as she proceeds to do just that.

' _I_ think you've got a good reason tonight for breaking that rule,' says Sam. She has been carrying Glenda's envelope and its contents, and now puts it down on the dressing table.

'Thank you for taking care of me down there. How _ridiculous_ – I never fainted before in my life!'

'You're welcome! Basic first aid was a part of MTC training. It's been _quite_ useful.'

'I have something to give to you,' Glenda says. 'It's in my pocket, though – I hope I didn't squash it when I fell! This morning, before maintenance, I bicycled out to Hawthorne Cross – where our American friends are at work, you know.'

'Did they let you onto the premises?'

'Of course they did! _This_ ,' Glenda explains, indicating her uniform, 'opens a _great_ many doors. _You_ ought to try making use of that. In any event,' she continues, drawing a small cardboard box that unmistakably contains a lipstick from one of her tunic pockets and handing it to Sam, ' _this_ was passed on to me by – and please take note of this, Sam – _Corporal_ Farnetti, who asked me to tell you that there is more where this came from. You have only to ask, he says. I have to say, I _do_ hope that it was obtained _legally!_ '

'Goodness gracious,' is all Sam can say at first. _Glenda's right_ , she thinks. _It's getting harder and harder to find makeup, and it costs a fortune when one does. The black market is bound to sink their claws in before long._

She makes a mental note never to wear this in front of anyone on the police force.

'Ir- that is, I understand that Corporal Farnetti wanted to be transferred,' Glenda is saying now, 'but I learned today that no one from the 215th who's applied for a new assignment – apparently a _lot_ of them are _not_ fond of the climate here – in any case, _no one's_ being transferred. They're too close to finishing the job. So they'll still be about, it seems, for another few months.'

Something in Glenda's voice pulls Sam's attention away from the lipstick, which is a rather more emphatic shade of red than she has worn in the past.

'You _surely_ didn't go all the way out to Hawthorne Cross only to fetch this,' she says.

'No,' Glenda admits. 'There was, well, something else I needed to attend to.' She looks down.

'You needn't tell me about it if you don't want to,' Sam assures her.

'I'm sure you can guess. I broke things off with Ira.'

'I'm _sorry_ , Glenda.'

'Thank you, but please don't be. He's a very nice man in his way, but we simply _don't_ see the world through the same lens, and there's really _no_ future for us together. The thing is, though,' Glenda continues, now sounding very serious indeed, 'three years ago, or even two, I wouldn't have cared a jot – not as long as I was... having a good time. The war really has _changed_ me, Sam, and it was talking to you last night that made me realise that. I don't want to carry on in the way that I used to.'

'The war has changed a _lot_ of people, I think – I've learned a good deal about _that_ during the past two days alone,' Sam says. Then, hoping to be encouraging, she goes on, 'In your new life as an officer you'll be travelling in a new circle and will meet _lots_ of people you'd _never_ have met in the other ranks.'

'Please don't remind me! I'm going to be a disaster!'

'I'm sure you'll be anything _but!_ If your commanding officer recommended you for this, Glenda, and the leaders of the A.T.S. agreed to it, and the Ministry of Defence acted upon it, then they must have _very_ good reason to believe that you'd be a good officer.'

'I hope you're right, is all I can say.'

'Do you have new orders now?' Sam asks.

'Oo-er, I don't _know!_ There was a letter in that envelope, wasn't there? Let me see it, would you please?'

Glenda reads the letter and then looks up.

'Apparently I'm _not_ being transferred,' she reports.

'Oh, _good!_ '

'I'm on leave until 1200 hours a week from today,' Glenda goes on. 'Then I'm to report to my commanding officer – the same one as before. I _am_ being moved, though. A.T.S. officers' quarters at Clive Manor – no more billet. I'll have to pack up,' she adds, glancing around the room.

'I'm _so_ glad that you're not being transferred, but I'll miss seeing you, Glenda. Will you go home for your leave?'

'No – that is, I've nowhere _to_ go, really. With the way things are in London I couldn't possibly impose on my friends there and... well, the fact is that I _have_ no family as such. I grew up in a foundling home in Middlesex. Not a terrible place, mind you – I was always well provided for and we got a _very_ good education – but there's no one left from when I lived there. No, I'll stay in Hastings. I'll miss seeing you as well, Sam,' Glenda adds.

'I always thought that you must be _related_ to Lyle's Golden Syrup!' Sam exclaims, just before it occurs to her that this might not be the best subject to broach.

'I am,' Glenda replies matter-of-factly, 'but only on my _mother's_ side.'

'You know, we ought to have a party,' Sam says, glad that a change of subject presents itself so easily. 'What about Friday night? The Silver Horn would be a good place. We can ask all the girls.'

'Thank you! I wouldn't say no to that,' Glenda says, and then changes the subject in turn. 'How lovely to have a visit from your aunt!'

'It was a complete surprise – she sent a telegram just this morning! It _was_ lovely, and very well-timed. It was _very_ good to be able to talk to her just now. She's had a _lot_ of experience of life – more than I had understood, it seems.'

'You look a great deal better than when I saw you last night,' Glenda observes after looking at Sam carefully.

'Thank you. _Everyone_ has been saying that, actually.'

'Are things... Are you... Do you _see_ how I've changed, Sam? I've _never_ been one to dissemble, but now – oh, _dear!_ For lack of a better way of putting it, are things all right?'

Sam considers this.

'I suppose the answer to that question depends on what one _means_ by things being all right,' she replies. 'You asked me last night whether I love Andrew. I do. He says that he loves me, and I believe him. He wants us to start walking out again. The problem is, there's a war going on. That _ought_ to make people behave better than they would do otherwise, or at least more wisely, but it doesn't always.'

'No argument from me,' Glenda agrees. 'It can have just the opposite effect.'

'Andrew and I didn't always behave wisely when we were walking out a couple of years ago. We didn't tell his father, for one thing, and I didn't tell my parents. And then Andrew was transferred quite a distance away, which didn't help matters at all. I don't suppose it helps _anyone_. He's being transferred back to Hastings now, but there's no telling how long _that_ will last, and then we would be back to where we were when he was sent away the first time. My aunt says that the question is whether I love Andrew enough to take that risk.'

Glenda, in her turn, is silent for a moment.

'Sam, do you think that Flight Lieutenant Foyle has... _learned_ anything from, well, whatever it was that happened the last time he went away?' she asks at last. 'It sounds as though _you_ have, but do you think that _he_ has?'

'I _do_ think so,' Sam says, 'but I don't _know_ so.'

'No, of course you don't. How could you possibly _know?_ How could _he_ possibly know? If _I_ were in love, and if I had even half as much confidence about it as _you_ seem to do, Sam, I think that I would stay the course. My advice on _that_ subject might not be worth much, though – I'm not sure anymore that I ever _have_ been in love. I'm _quite_ good at fooling myself, though,' Glenda adds dryly.

'I've only been in love once.'

'Not twice?'

'No. Definitely only once.' _I need to write to Joe and apologise to him_ , Sam thinks. _And thank him for the lipstick, of course._

* * *

'Who was that?' Foyle asks, looking up as Andrew replaces the receiver. 'If I may ask?' he adds.

'Greville Woods – do you remember him?'

'Pilot?' Foyle ventures.

'He _was_. He was in the burn hospital when I, um, when I was sent to Debden. I'm not sure you ever actually met him then.'

'I do remember you talking about him, though. You and others. How is he?'

'Quite well, it seems. He's still in the R.A.F., but he works for the Intelligence Branch now. No one's allowed to know what he does, but he sounds happy. I spoke with him this afternoon. He's married now to the girl he was walking out with back then. They've just invited me to supper on Friday. Um, you don't mind, do you, Dad?'

'No, of course not. Go and enjoy yourself.'

'Thank you. Dad – I need to ask you something,' Andrew goes on. 'Please don't be upset by this.'

'Not a very reassuring thing to say before asking a question, Andrew, but go ahead.'

'Would you have -' Andrew breaks off, then begins again. 'How did you get the streptomycin for Sam? Stuff like that's being rationed more carefully than oranges!'

He gets no answer at first, other than a startled look.

'I know that she had anthrax last month – pneumonia's a good story to put out, but Sam told me the truth. We spent yesterday morning... exchanging state secrets. I told her mine, and she told me hers. I didn't _ask_ her to. She said I ought to know.'

His father's look of surprise gives way to one of irritation.

'She really ought _not_ to have told you that,' Foyle says.

'And _I_ oughtn't to have lied to her last spring. I still can't really explain why I _did_ , except that I was so frightened that I was losing my wits. I should have told her the same thing I told you, but I didn't, so I had no choice now but to tell her the whole story now. She won't give away my story, and I won't give away hers, or yours.'

'No choice if you want to get back into Sam's good graces, you mean.'

'Yes.'

'Well. The streptomycin came from the same place as the anthrax spores – Army intelligence.'

'And they simply handed it over?'

'Yes – _after_ they were threatened with exposure of their experiment gone wrong.'

'Threatened by whom?' Andrew asks.

'By me.'

'Um... thank you, then, for doing that.'

'I wasn't thinking of you, but you're welcome. You started to ask me another question a moment ago, Andrew. What else would you like to know?'

'Well... I've got no business asking why you didn't contact me when Sam was ill, Dad, I realise that -'

'No, that would be pretty close to the height of impertinence, it seems to me.'

'- but if she had died, would you have told me?'

'Yes, of course,' says Foyle. 'I began thinking about that at one point – what to tell her parents, and what to tell you.'

They are both silent for a time.

'As much out of curiosity as anything else, _have_ you got back into Sam's good graces?'

'No, um, not as much as I'd like. She says she needs to think about it. Which I understand completely.'

'I see.' Foyle falls silent again, and then goes on, 'I ought to amend something I said just now. When I told Captain Halliday what I was willing to do in order to get that streptomycin, I wasn't _only_ thinking of you, Andrew.'

* * *

 _10.00 PM – Mr F says recent burglaries of paper, business equipment, etc., carried out with SOE's blessing (official information,_ _do __not __repeat_ _). Can't be investigated further.  
Andrew came to station to see me – nice chat – seems to remember everything ever told him about self and family.  
Aunt Amy also came to station, met Andrew, Mr F, etc. Had supper with Aunt A at Royal Vic. Food worse than in past, but as expected wonderful to talk to her. Very helpful to have kind female relation who has __lived_ _so much!  
Must face facts – I still love Andrew. Terrified by this (wartime, human nature, etc.), but Aunt A says I am lucky and should stay the course.  
'Stay the course' actually Glenda's words. G received commission tonight as expected. Fainted dead away! Perhaps just exhausted – also broke with Sgt Orloff today – says talking to __me_ _made her realise she should! G agrees with Aunt A about me and Andrew.  
_

* * *

 **Author's note:  
** The National Loaf was the only commercially-made bread available in the U.K. during the war and for several years thereafter. Deeply unpopular, it was made from whole wheat (wholemeal) flour, sometimes combined with potato flour, with vitamin C added. A number of recipes are available on the World Wide Web.

Cosmetics were never rationed in the U.K., and Julie Summers points out in _Fashion on the Ration_ (London: Profile Books, 2015) that their use was actually promoted as a way of maintaining public morale – and thus as a patriotic act. The materials needed to manufacture them were in extremely short supply, however, and and Summers also notes that makeup companies' advertisements often carried disclaimers to the effect that the products advertised might not be available everywhere, or at all. Under the circumstances, a black market was bound to emerge.


	14. Chapter 14

THURSDAY 3 SEPTEMBER

When Mrs Hardcastle's tenants leave her house in the morning they find a handwritten sign tacked up on the inside of the front door:

 _Drinks  
To celebrate Glenda being commissioned  
Friday 6.30 (1830 h) or so  
The Silver Horn  
First round is mine_

 _\- Sam Stewart_

Sam herself has already left for the day. This is the earliest she can ever remember arriving at Mr Foyle's house. Perhaps, with a bit of luck, she will have time...

No. She arrives to find a lorry parked in front of the house where she usually leaves the car; something is being unloaded into the tall grey house around the corner. She leaves the Wolseley around the other corner, across from St Clement's parish house, then mounts the steps to no. 31 and knocks at the door.

No. Mr Foyle is waiting for her, ready to leave.

'Morning, Sam – excellent timing. There's been a report of a break-in. We're going to the station to collect Milner and then we'll go to the scene.'

As they turn right to go to the car Sam looks through the sitting room widows and sees that Andrew has stationed himself there and is watching them leave. Perhaps her smile will tell him what she wants to say to him.

Part of it, at least.

* * *

'Is it another burglary, sir?' _And if it is_ , _what will we do about it?_

'We-ll, that's hard to _say_ at this point.' Mr Foyle pauses before continuing, as if he were deciding what, or how much, to tell her. 'Brooke tells me the caller wasn't entirely coherent. A break-in – that's as much as we know at this point.' Then, to Sam's surprise, he changes the subject. 'Have a good visit with your aunt last night?'

'Oh – yes, sir, it was _very_ good to see her. I owe her a great deal, you know. It was _her_ idea that I ought to join the MTC when the war broke out, which is how I came to be here, after all. And,' Sam goes on before she can start wondering if she's about to say too much, 'her visit was very... well-timed. Very welcome.'

'Mm. No regrets about coming to Hastings, then?'

'The MTC posted me here, sir.'

'And you never thought about applying for a transfer?'

'No, sir, never,' Sam answers slowly. 'Why do you ask, sir?'

'The most important reason right _now_ ,' Mr Foyle says, glancing away from her, 'is that after we go to the station our next stop will be MTC Hastings Area Command. Mrs Bradley reported the break-in there. And since she and I have had several conversations during which she's made it clear that she thinks I'm _padding_ the reports I'm obliged to send her every month about the work you've been doing for the Hastings Police I think you'd better come in with us – so that she can _see_ that we're keeping you busy. You won't mind that, will you, Sam?' he goes on. 'I know how much you dislike staying with the car while Milner and I are conducting an investigation.'

* * *

Sam is actually rather fond of the MTC premises in Hastings, a brick edifice from the '80's that was built, she recalls being told, to house an electric lighting company. And the noisy, barely-controlled chaos that Sam remembers from when she worked here is absent now.

That turns out to be the case because a group of MTC mechanics are standing about looking abashed. And the quiet that Foyle, Milner and Sam find when they enter is soon replaced by the sound of Mrs Bradley's voice.

'This is _outrageous!_ If _you_ people can't maintain enough law and order to allow the war effort to go _forward_ , then _we_ might as well pack it in!'

The doors to the building's loading dock have been smashed in, although Milner reports that it looks as though someone attempted to pick the lock first.

There is no damage to any of the vehicles in the MTC's care; nor are any of them gone. But a large storage closet has also been broken into, and when Mrs Bradley is finally persuaded to have a look around and see if anything is missing, she reports that indeed there is.

'There was a standing typewriter in here!' she screeches.

'A _standing_ typewriter?' Milner asks.

'On _legs_. It was here when the MTC took over this building!'

'Do you mean a _book_ typewriter, ma'am?' Sam asks.

The slight softening of Mrs Bradley's personality that Sam observed from her hospital bed last month has vanished.

'I _didn't_ give you permission to address me, Stewart!'

' _Thank you_ , Sam,' Mr Foyle intervenes. 'Mrs Bradley, I believe Miss Stewart is correct – the piece of equipment you're describing _is_ often referred to as a book typewriter. Was it in good working order?'

'Yes – and a good thing, too! Not _one_ of these girls they've sent me can _write_ legibly, so we use that for keeping the ledgers – or we _did_. I don't know _what_ I'll do now.'

* * *

'What are we going to _do?_ ' Sam asks once they all are safely back in the car.

' _We_ aren't going to do _anything_ ,' Mr Foyle replies. ' _I_ will file a report with the A.C.C.'s office asking for instructions in light of Tuesday's briefing.'

* * *

Sam leaves Mr Foyle and and Milner in front of the station and takes the car around to the back. She removes the car's distributor cap and carries it into the station through the rear entrance.

On her way to the waiting area she passes by Milner, who says nothing but smiles at her in a way that she can't read at first.

Then she can. Her step quickens.

In the waiting area Andrew is chatting with Brooke, who starts to introduce the two of them.

'Oh, thank you, Sergeant, Miss Stewart and I have been introduced before this,' Andrew says.

Sam puts the distributor cap in its agreed-upon place, the upper left-hand corner of Brooke's desk.

'I'm going back out to the car, Brookie, if anyone wants to know where I am,' she announces. 'I want to see what state the boot is in. It's been a _month_ since I looked in there!'

* * *

Andrew waits for nearly two minutes after Sam leaves before saying that he's taken up too much of Sergeant Brooke's time and excusing himself. He is already out of the front door before he realises that he's left without making even a pretence of looking in on his father.

 _Dad's office is on the east side of the building_ , he remembers. He decides to go around the west side.

 _But the kitchen and the canteen are on the west side, so_ anybody _might see me if I go that way. Possibly including Dad._

 _Nothing for it but to take the risk._

Too late, Andrew remembers that there's no access to the yard from the west side in any case – a brick wall slightly too high to see over blocks his way.

Backtracking, he finds a familiar-looking constable – _Oh, blast, the chap from Tuesday, what was his name? Peters, that's it; Sam didn't think too highly of him_ – looking out of the kitchen window.

Heart pounding, he walks around the east side of the station. He comes to a halt just before his path will bring him within sight of his father's office window, then hurries past as quickly as he can, turning his face away.

Sam has parked the Wolseley at the far end of the lot. The bonnet is raised and, true to her word, she's surveying the boot's contents – a starting handle, a wheel brace, a box spanner, plain spanners in several sizes, a first-aid kit and two blankets – when Andrew finds her behind it.

'Hello, Sam.'

'Hello, Andrew,' Sam says, more quietly and less steadily than she had imagined doing. 'I'm... very glad you're here. I came by early this morning because I wanted... to talk to you about something, but as it turned out there wasn't time.'

'Well. I'm here now.'

Sam nods. She has been holding one of the blankets but tosses it back into the boot. Then she takes two steps towards Andrew so that she is standing closer to him than she has since before he was transferred to Debden and grasps one of his hands with each of her own. His eyes widen.

'I love you,' she says. 'I'm quite frightened by that, because you might be sent away again, or worse, and because of everything I've learned about both of us in the past two years, and because of what I've learned during the past two _days_ about what a war can do to the people who are fighting it.'

'If it frightens _you_ , it _terrifies_ me.'

'Why?'

'Because you're infinitely better than I deserve, and because I know what I'm like, even though I love you also, Sam,' Andrew replies. 'I thought that simply _knowing_ that, and knowing that you love me, would make me... wiser, I suppose, or stronger, or less selfish, but it hasn't. And if _that_ didn't do the trick, then I have no idea what will.'

'I _do_ love you, though, and if you want us to make a new start, to rebuild, I will do that with you – on two conditions.'

'Tell me what they are,' Andrew says, almost in a whisper.

'We _must_ tell your father right away. Slipping about behind his back last time, or trying to, turned out to be rather pointless. And I think we hurt his feelings a bit, actually.'

'You _think_ so, and I _know_ it! I got an earful, in writing, a couple of days after I got to Debden.'

'Oh, golly! Not a very good way to get started there.'

'No. Though it _was_ sort of portentous.'

The word _dictionary_ floats through Sam's mind.

'Sorry,' she says. 'Sort of what?'

'Portentous. A bad omen, indicative of things to come. I agree with you, though. That was very poor judgment on my part.'

'On _both_ our parts,' Sam replies. 'And I will, I _promise_ , write to my parents as soon as I can and tell them about you. I never _did_ do that before. Aunt Amy is the only person in my family who knows that you exist – Uncle Michael will by the end of the day – and that's only because you met her yesterday. My parents would only have... assumed the worst, and they'll probably do that now, but it doesn't matter any longer.'

'All right. For whatever it might be worth, my uncle and aunt and cousins _do_ know about you,' says Andrew. 'They're probably wondering why they've heard nothing about you for months now. I'll have to decide what to tell them about that. What's the second condition, Sam?'

Sam's face and voice are suddenly very serious.

'You must promise _never_ to lie to me again, not about _anything_ ,' she tells him. 'If you do, we're finished.'

For a second they are all but stock still, looking silently into each other's eyes.

'Do you understand what that's liable to mean, Sam?' Andrew asks. 'Neither of us can know what the war will demand, and it _isn't_ going to end soon. Sooner or later you may ask me something and I may have to say, "Sorry, I'm not allowed to talk about that."'

'I understand that completely. I told you on Tuesday, I can bear that. What I _can't_ bear is being lied to again – not by you _._ So from now on, tell me whatever you _can_ tell me, and for the rest, please simply tell me that you _can't_ tell me.' Sam stops to draw breath and then says, 'I didn't put that very well, did I?'

'You put it brilliantly,' Andrew replies.

'Thank you.'

'All right, then, I promise,' he goes on. 'No lies, ever.' He is about to say something more but is interrupted by the sound of three aeroplanes passing by overhead, east to west, at low altitude. Sam jumps slightly and they both look upwards.

'Those are ours,' Andrew reassures her. 'Not Spits, though – Hurricanes.'

He waits for the quiet to return.

'Sam, may I kiss you?'

' _I wish you would!'_

He draws even closer to her and begins to kiss her right cheek, but Sam is having none of this and turns her head to face him so that her lips are on his. He kisses her and feels her kiss him in return.

It is the same as it was, only more so now. It feels as if they are falling into each other.

The kiss ends, and then another, more urgent this time. They are both breathless now but when Andrew takes half a step back Sam gasps, 'No, please don't stop!' before she has time to recall that she wasn't brought up to behave or speak in this way.

And so there is a third kiss that begins at Sam's left temple and works its way across her cheek and to her mouth. That ends, and, at great length, so does a fourth.

It feels as if the world around them is falling away.

They stand clasped in each other's arms, Sam leaning her head on Andrew's shoulder, feeling the rhythm of his breathing and listening to the sound of his heart.

The Wolseley's bonnet is still raised; it shields them from the most of the yard. By the time they hear the sound of footsteps crunching across the gravel they have only a split second to spring apart from one another.

'Miss Stewart,' Brooke begins, and then stops abruptly, seeing both of them with their caps askew and Sam's hair slightly disarranged. He looks startled, then puzzled, and finally sly.

Sam picks up the blanket again.

'We're nearly out of tincture of iodine, Brookie, and I don't know _what_ we ought to do about _this_ ,' she announces, sounding only slightly breathless. 'We're meant to have _two_ blankets in the car, but the moths have been using _this_ one as a _canteen_. Of course it's hard to replace _anything_ nowadays. I'm worried, though, that it'll reflect badly on the police force if this is the sort of thing we offer when a blanket is needed.'

'Tell you what,' Brooke replies, 'why don't you put that back in there for now and I'll see what I can do. Tincture of iodine?'

'Yes, for the first aid kit.'

'Right-o. I'll look into that. Oh, Miss Stewart,' he goes on, as if remembering suddenly why he is here, 'Mr Foyle wants to talk to you.'

* * *

'I don't know _why_ this was sent to me – the letter itself is addressed to _you._ ' Mr Foyle hands Sam an envelope.

'Thank you, sir.'

'Aren't you going to _read_ it, Sam?'

'I will, sir.' She has barely glanced at it before putting it into one of her pockets. 'Sir, you asked me earlier if I have any regrets about being posted to Hastings. I'd like to say again that I _don't_ , I have none at _all_ , and I've never _once_ thought about asking to be transferred somewhere else, _or_ resigning from the MTC.'

'Glad to hear it.'

'Even the... _difficult_ things that have happened while I've been here have been – well, I've survived them, and I'm better than I was for having gone through them. Andrew is here, sir,' Sam goes on, before Mr Foyle has time to reply.

'Really. Still?'

'He's in the passage. Just outside.'

'Ask him to come in here, would you?'

'Whatever you say, sir.'

Sam opens the door to Mr Foyle's office a bit wider and motions for Andrew to come in.

'Have you really got nothing better to do this morning than to stand about here distracting my staff, Andrew?' his father asks.

Andrew stands next to Sam, his hand on her shoulder.


	15. Chapter 15

'That really wasn't so terrible,' says Sam.

'I know,' Andrew answers her, sounding only faintly surprised. 'You're right. We were worried about nothing at all last time.'

They sit where they did yesterday, closer together now.

'I'm taking the girls at my billet out for a round of drinks tomorrow night,' Sam goes on.

'Ought you really to be doing that sort of thing, Sam? You do look _much_ healthier than you did on Tuesday, but you still have shadows around your eyes, here and here.'

He touches the hollow of her temple and the side of her nose – _how brilliant, how miraculous almost, to be able to do this simple thing_ – and then lets his hand rest for a moment on her cheek.

'It won't be a _late_ night – half past six at the Silver Horn. Would you like to come? You'll be the only man there, but you won't mind that, will you?'

'Oh, thanks! What's the occasion?'

'My friend Glenda Lyle – you met her on Tuesday, do you remember?'

'Yes, of course I do.'

'She's been commissioned as a second subaltern.'

'That's brilliant!'

 _'I_ couldn't agree more, but _she's_ rather petrified. I think she could use some... bucking up about other matters as well.'

'Hmm?'

'Do you remember her friend Sergeant Orloff?'

'Yes. He didn't seem to care for me too much.' _Not time yet to ask about that_ , Andrew decides.

'He _won't_ be there,' Sam explains. 'That's Glenda's doing. Conflicting political views. I gather that some of your Oxford acquaintances would quite _like_ the sergeant.'

'That's doubtful. Approve of him or consider him useful, perhaps, but I told you – they were a pack of snobs.'

'In any event, Glenda says it was _necessary_ and she ought to have broken with him before now, but I still think she could stand some good cheer and pleasant company, male _or_ female.'

'All right then, I'll be there! Isn't the Silver Horn a bit far off, though?'

'It is, but no one will look at us sideways there,' Sam explains. 'As girls in a pub, I mean, with or without male escorts. Are your comrades-at-arms in Hastings yet? We could invite them to join us.'

'If you mean the other instructors from No. 605 Squadron, I've no idea.'

'What are they like?'

'Well, Chatto – he's the other flight lieutenant – nice enough chap, quite nice in fact, but a bit of a mystery man. All I know about him is that he's a Londoner, enlisted in '34, came up through the ranks and got his wings just before the war started. Any time anyone tries to get him to talk about his life before he joined the R.A.F., he shuts them down – politely, to be sure, but one has to wonder why.'

'What about your squadron leader?'

'Palgrave. Mm. Well, in his defence, he's a born teacher, _really_ outstanding. I'd be a better pilot if I'd been taught by someone like that.'

Sam makes protesting noises at the suggestion that Andrew is something other than an exemplary pilot.

'Outside of the classroom, though,' Andrew continues, and then trails off.

The idea of Palgrave being in Sam's vicinity has just occurred to him for the first time. He doesn't care for it.

'Not exactly a boon companion?' Sam suggests.

'He _thinks_ that he is, but he's... well, _vulgar_ is the first word that springs to mind. Also _self-satisfied_. You wouldn't like him. And he was constantly trying to curry favour with our group captain. Oh, _blast!_ ' Andrew says suddenly. 'Sorry.'

'What's wrong?'

'I forgot about something. Greville and Anne invited me to supper tomorrow night. Said they'd have a surprise for me. Wait – would you mind if I asked _them_ to the party? I'll cover their drinks, don't worry about that.'

'Oh, yes! What a lovely idea!'

'I don't know what you'll think of this,' Andrew goes on, 'but I have another idea as well, Sam.'

'Please do tell me.'

'We said that we were going to rebuild. I thought we might try to... repair what we didn't do properly the first the first time. To get off to a better start.'

'We just _did_ do part of that,' Sam points out. 'What else did you have in mind?'

'Could I buy you tea at the Pavilion on Saturday?'

'Oh! Well, yes – I'd like that very much,' Sam replies, smiling. 'How shall we get there, though? They've stopped running shoreline buses on Saturdays and I suppose it's a bit far for me to walk or bicycle – in my fragile state, you know.'

'Ah. No Saturday buses? I hadn't heard _that_. Honestly, Sam, what are we coming to? Well, it'll get sorted somehow. What was it Dad gave you in there – if I'm allowed to ask?'

'Oh! I forgot all about it! Of course you're allowed to _ask_ – the question these days is whether you're allowed to _know_. Let's see, I put it _here_. No, _here_ ,' Sam continues, trying first one tunic pocket and then another. 'Oh, look, it's from MTC headquarters. So it's undoubtedly _not_ an official secret.'

'Can't be too sure – these evil times we live in, just as you say. Better not let me see it until you know what's in it, Sam,' Andrew warns her. But his eyes are sparkling.

Sam turns away from him, smiling to herself, so that he can read the letter over her shoulder.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

 **MECHANISED TRANSPORT CORPS  
** HEADQUARTERS  
39, Graham Terrace  
London, S.W.1

1 September 1942

SCO Samantha Stewart  
in c/o Mrs Eleanor Hardcastle  
No. 25, Stonefield Road  
Hastings, East Sussex

Dear Miss Stewart:

Please be advised that as of even date you are promoted to the rank of Section Cadet Officer. This decision has been taken in light of the excellent reports we have received of your service to the maintenance of law and order, public safety and morale along the South Coast since 1940.

The Council of the Mechanised Transport Corps is grateful for your continuing service to the Nation during this time of crisis.

Sincerely,

 _Resy Peake  
_ Mrs Resy Peake  
Corps Commandant

RP:pb

cc: Commandant Karen Bradley, Hastings Area Command, MTC  
DCS Christopher Foyle, Hastings Police

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

'I've been promoted,' Sam says in a small voice.

'High time, if you want my opinion,' Andrew replies, and hugs her from behind. 'Congratulations.'

* * *

It is nearly teatime.

'Um, Sam?'

'Yes, sir?'

'The woman who was found at the bottom of the Wellington Road steps on Tuesday,' Mr Foyle explains. 'I was wondering if you could supply any additional details. This report is a bit _lacking_ in that department. What did she look like, to begin with?'

'About the same height as I am or perhaps just a _bit_ shorter. Very straight dark hair, blue eyes. She was _very_ slim – as though she hadn't been eating enough, almost,' Sam recalls. 'She was wearing a dark grey costume with white trim – it was probably from before the war – and it was slightly too large on her, I thought. She wasn't wearing a hat.'

'Did she seem, well, especially distressed?'

'I'm sure she wasn't happy to have dislocated her wrist, sir! She did seem _very_ eager to be on her way – the ambulance brigade wanted to take her to hospital for an x-ray, but she refused.'

'Anything else? Did anything about her stick out in your mind?'

'Actually, _yes_ ,' Sam replies. 'For one thing, sir, _she_ said that she was twenty-four, but she looked older than that to me – perhaps as old as thirty. And I wondered whether English is her mother tongue.'

'Oh, really? Why?'

'The MTC's new Corps Commandant, Mrs Peake, is from Belgium originally. I met her once before I joined up. She spoke English _very_ well, but not _quite_ as though she'd spoken the language her whole life. Miss Bow spoke in just the same way. May I ask why you want to know, sir?'

'Well, someone named Josephine Beaux – B-E-A-U-X, not B-O-W as given here, but described as you just did – has been reported missing. She left her residence on _Monday_ morning and no one there has heard from her since then. But _that_ Josephine Beaux apparently lives at a different address than the one _yours_ gave to Peters. We've just checked at _that_ address, and the owner says he's never heard of a Josephine Beaux, spelled either way.'

'If she hasn't been heard from since Monday, why wasn't she reported missing until now?'

'Good question,' Mr Foyle says.

* * *

 _Quite late – Will try to record day's events here_ _in __order_ _.  
Burglary reported early this morning at MTC Area Command – book typewriter taken (nothing else). Clearly related to earlier incidents, so can't look into any further. Most frustrating. Mrs B __definitely_ _not pleased to see me.  
Andrew visited station this morning. All well. __Very_ _peculiar feeling, very_ _wonderful_ _as well – overjoyed and frightened and confident and very calm, all at once. Told Andrew we_ _must_ _tell Mr F – done – thought Mr F looked pleased. (Didn't say much.) Will write to Dad and Mother over week-end to tell them about Andrew. Still very nervous about how they'll react.  
Also told Andrew I'll leave him if he ever lies to me again. Says that with war on will likely mean he'll have to refuse to answer question some day, but __has_ _promised not to lie. Realise now this must go both ways and will have to keep same promise to him. Glenda told me last night no one from 215th Co. USACE being transferred despite many requests, so will be here for next few months at least. Will need to tell Andrew about Joe. Wondering if ought to tell J about Andrew as well. Must face facts – was not honest with him about this. Was not honest with self about this either.  
Whole billet going to Silver Horn for drinks tomorrow night to celebrate G's commission. Invited Andrew, he will invite Anne and Greville W. They asked him to supper that night – told him to expect surprise. Am slightly afraid to wonder what this might be.  
Letter today from MTC HQ – sent to Mr F by accident. Am promoted to Section Cadet Officer. Mrs B must have known in advance. (See above.)  
Mr F asked for further information about Miss Beaux (_ _not_ _Bow) from Tuesday – appearance, behaviour, etc. Woman of same name and description reported missing today, since_ _Monday_ _. However Miss B from Tuesday apparently gave false address. Wondering now if she's SOE but probably better to keep this idea to self. Quite likely ridiculous anyway.  
At war three years today. __Most_ _odd that all noted above happened on this anniversary._

* * *

 **Author's note:  
** Resy Peake (1908-1994) became Corps Commandant of the MTC in April 1942, succeeding the organization's founder, Mrs. G.M. Cook.


	16. Chapter 16

FRIDAY 4 SEPTEMBER

The saloon bar of the Silver Horn is L-shaped; oddly, the bar itself isn't visible from the entrance. Sam and her party arrive in a body and manage to secure a large table near the front.

Sam makes introductions. Everyone congratulates Anne and Greville, whose news is evident to any but the most inexperienced eye.

'In February,' Anne says happily.

Sam does a quick calculation.

 _No call for anyone to do any head-shaking, then,_ she thinks. _They're only twenty-one, though! Then again, my mother was only eighteen or nineteen when she started having children – or trying to._

She takes orders – including a bottle of lemon squash for Anne – and goes around the corner to the bar. A very tall, very blond airman is seated there nursing a half-pint.

'I say, that's an awful lot for one person to carry, even with a tray,' he observes after Sam has given the barman her table's order. 'Would you like an extra pair of hands?'

Sam notes with approval that he says 'person,' not 'girl.'

'Thank you – that's very kind of you,' she replies.

The airman looks at her quizzically.

'Look here, miss,' he says, 'I _promise_ this isn't a line, but have we met? I've only just arrived in Hastings, but I'm _almost_ certain I've seen you somewhere before. Wait, I know! You're Miss Stewart, aren't you?'

Sam looks back at the airman.

'I am. Ought I to know you?'

'Oh, no, not at all. That is, my name's Robert Chatto. I'm being transferred here from Debden, and I thought I'd come down a few days early and get the lay of the land. We _haven't_ met, but I've seen your photograph – quite a few times, actually.'

'Yes, of course! I've heard of you! Andrew is here -'

'You can't _imagine_ how pleased I am to hear that!' Chatto interrupts her, adding hurriedly, ' _If_ that isn't speaking out of turn.'

 _People were worried about us_ , Sam thinks, startled. _Someone I don't even know was worried about us._

'No, not at all,' she says. 'A girl at my billet was commissioned this week – she's in the A.T.S. – and we're celebrating. Would you like to join us? Please call me Sam,' she adds.

'Why, thank you!'

The barman has filled Sam's order, thoughtfully providing two trays. Chatto follows Sam back to the table.

Andrew, seeing Sam out of the corner of his eye, turns to look at her, sees Chatto behind her and stands up, astonished, laughing. Then he sees that Chatto is looking past him at the guest of honour, who has also risen to her feet.

'Robin Chatto!' Glenda proclaims, in something alarmingly close to a shriek.

'Miss Lyle!' he responds, and when Sam looks behind her she sees that he is grinning from ear to ear.

'This gentleman,' Glenda tells the party, 'was one of the West End's leading boy actors during the twenties!'

'And Miss Lyle, I mean Subaltern Lyle, used to hang lights at the Old Vic and Saddler's Wells – or at least you did in '32. I can still remember watching you climb about up there!'

'That was my very first job,' Glenda affirms.

'And more or less my last,' Chatto notes.

'You did rather disappear,' Glenda tells him.

'Once my voice broke and I shot up like this producers were no longer interested, really,' Chatto explains.

 _He looks a bit embarrassed – and relieved at the same time, as though he were unburdening himself_ , Andrew thinks.

'After that season with the Old Vic I could only get work as an understudy,' Chatto is saying. 'So I left the theatre, got my Higher School Certificate, joined the R.A.F., and... well, here I am.'

'So you are! _Do_ come sit by me – we _desperately_ need to catch up.'

* * *

The party is breaking up. Felicity, having set aside her usual mild in favour of an experiment with stout, is suffering the consequences; Greville and Anne, whose other surprise is the six-year-old Morris Eight they've received from his parents as a delayed wedding gift, offer to drive her back to Mrs Hardcastle's.

'I have some news of interest,' Chatto tells Andrew, warning, 'I'd be telling you this in the strictest confidence, though.'

Andrew nods, hoping that he is wincing only inwardly.

'A cousin of mine's married to a chap who's on the Air Chief Marshal's staff,' Chatto goes on.

'I'm suitably impressed.'

'He's had his ear to the ground. It seems that Group Captain Galloway was relieved of duty on Monday, at about 1100 hours. Just _after_ I took off for London, alas – I'd have given quite a bit to have seen that. In any case, he's being investigated preliminary to a possible court-martial.'

It takes a moment, Andrew finds, for this to sink in.

'On what grounds?' Andrew asks.

'Prolonged abuse of authourity. Specifically, mental cruelty toward personnel under his command. Think about it – no one was ever allowed enough leave to do more than spend a few hours in London. He rejected all requests to bring in ENSA. He shut down the base library as a waste of funds. It goes on from there.'

'Was this an _organized_ effort to bring Galloway to Command's attention?'

'Not according to my in-law. It'd be surprising if it were, I suppose – divide and conquer was Galloway's approach, so no one talked much to anyone else. But it _does_ appear that the information in the complaint was gathered by just _one_ officer.'

'Are you planning to tell me who that was?' Andrew ventures after several seconds of silence.

'Squadron Leader Augustus Palgrave.'

'There's a lesson to be learned there, I suppose,' says Andrew. 'Don't judge a man by eighteen months of relentless hail-fellow-well-met behaviour.'

'Absolutely right! Nor by unending _apparent_ attempts to get in at Galloway's right hand. Clearly a case of – how did you put it last week? Wheels within wheels, _that_ was it. Ah, Glenda!' Chatto goes on as she comes into view. 'Is it far to your billet? Might I walk there with you?'

'I'd like that _awfully_ ,' Glenda replies.

Sam and Andrew watch them leave.

'Shall we follow them?' Andrew asks, adding, 'At a respectful distance, of course.'

'Yes, of course!'

* * *

The blackout has begun. For the first few minutes of their walk, arm in arm this time, they are almost silent. They walk very slowly, letting their eyes grow accustomed to the the darkness, which is broken only by the stars and the nightly searchlights; Glenda's troop are on duty.

'Did you _really_ think about bringing me along on ops when you were flying?' Sam asks after a while.

'Only as a sort of idle daydream – though oddly enough it began with an _actual_ dream. I think I still remember some of it.'

'Please tell me.'

'Well, I remember that I was in the dispatch hut with some other pilots. Just waiting, which is what one does there. And you were there. Nobody questioned that, I recall, and I didn't think it at all odd. I think we were looking at a nav chart – I probably knew by then how good you are at reading maps. And then the scramble bell rang. I don't remember whether I said, "Why don't you come with me?" or you said, "Why don't I come with you?" but I _do_ remember that you said something like, "I'll go get my first-aid kit – it's in the car, just outside!"'

'I had the _car_ there?' Sam laughs. 'You dreamt of me being on duty?'

'You _were_ wearing your uniform, I'm pretty sure that I remember that! Your hair was down your back, though, I think, as you have it now,' says Andrew.

'That wouldn't be permitted in real life,' Sam remarks. 'Hair must be kept _off_ of the collar, so the choice is to put it up or cut it short.'

'Please don't do that – cut your hair, I mean. _Please_ don't.'

'Not to worry. No plans to. What happened after that, though? Did I go flying with you?'

'Then came reveille, and I woke up,' Andrew recalls. 'Just as well, I think. It would have turned to a nightmare if it'd gone on much longer. Flying ops – you'd _hate_ it, Sam, and _I'd_ hate for you to see what happens.'

'I think that I've got _some_ idea of what does happen, Andrew. I read newspapers and I listen to the wireless. And you're right, I'm afraid. I'd be an absolute _wreck_ afterwards.'

'Then you'd be no different to quite a few pilots. Including me sometimes, as you know.'

Sam nods, then remembers how dark it is.

'Yes,' is all she says. They have never spoken or written about the night they spent in her room.

'But at any rate,' Andrew goes on, 'that _is_ what started me thinking that, well, _after_ the war... ' He trails off.

'When did you have that dream?' Sam asks.

'A month or so after we started walking out, I think. I was _so_ happy – and I'm so happy _now,_ my darling Sam, and so grateful. You're still alive. You're mending. You're still here in Hastings. You still love me. You're willing to give me a second chance.'

His voice has started to catch and break, but not the way it did on Tuesday: he sounds joyful rather than frightened.

'Yes,' Sam says again. 'Yes to _all_ of that.'

At the northern end of Stonefield Road they stop walking and unlace their arms. Sam places her hands on Andrew's shoulders while he slides his arms around her waist.

'Wait,' he whispers and looks to his right.

'Oh. Drat.' They let go of one another and both stand facing the road, waiting for whomever it is whose footsteps they can hear approaching them to appear.

'Good evening,' they hear Chatto say after a few seconds. 'Oh, Foyle! Good evening indeed! Is that Sam? Of _course_ it is! Quite right!' He is in very high spirits indeed. 'Sam,' he goes on before either of them can reply, 'I really can't thank you enough for inviting me to join your party. It's the most extraordinary thing, and it's made all the difference in the world! Well, good night!'

And with that he goes on his way.

'You've done a good work, Sam, I think,' Andrew observes.

'I hope so,' Sam responds. 'I've only known Glenda since May, but I gather her romances have been many and fleeting,' she goes on, adding, 'She's started wanting to change that, I think.'

Almost without realizing it they have returned to the arrangement they had assumed before they heard Chatto's footsteps, but now Andrew has drawn Sam as close to him as he can.

'She sounds a bit like me before I met you,' he murmurs into her ear, 'only in my case, I didn't know that I wanted to change my ways until you _did_ come along.'

'A couple of days ago Glenda told me that it's knowing _me_ that's made _her_ want to change!'

'Not surprising at _all._ You're a benign influence on everyone who crosses your path.'

'You make me sound _just_ like a vicar's daughter,' Sam protests.

'Is that so very terrible, my angel?'

The crown of Sam's head is the first thing to present itself, so he kisses that before finding her forehead, the apple of one cheek and then her mouth as she turns her face toward his.

Tuesday's autumnal chill has returned; Sam shivers suddenly.

'The temperature's dropping out here,' Andrew tells her. 'We need to get you indoors. I don't want you falling ill – not ever again, preferably – and this wasn't meant to be a late night out, if you recall.'

Sam makes a small sound that might mean any number of things. She doesn't move.

'I'm warmer standing out here with you, just like this, than I'll be in the house,' she says.

* * *

 **Author's notes:  
** The Silver Horn is my own invention, informed by _Passport to the Pub: The Tourist's Guide to Pub Etiquette_ , by Kate Fox (London: Brewers and Licensed Retailers Association, 1996; available at the website of the Social Issues Research Center) and inspired by "The Pubs That Were Supposed to Civilise Drinking get a Reprieve," by Martin Robinson – about the landmarking (listing) of several pubs designed and built during the inter-war period with the specific goal of attracting women and families – posted on the _Daily Mail_ 's website on August 28th, 2015. Its name comes from the song "The Silver Horn" (ca. 1882), music and lyrics by Henry Clay Work (1832 - 1884).

The Entertainments National Service Association (ENSA) was formed in 1939 and provided live entertainment for British troops during and after World War II.


	17. Chapter 17

SATURDAY 5 SEPTEMBER

They find a place to leave the borrowed Morris and thread their way through the Saturday crowd. When the hostess at the Pavilion tells them that they will have to wait thirty minutes for a table Andrew looks at Sam, chagrined.

'Not the best idea I've ever had, I'm afraid. I wonder if we're destined _ever_ to have a nice time of it here, Sam,' he whispers.

'Of _course_ we are – we simply have to be patient,' she replies. 'Half an hour isn't _so_ long. It's a fine day, and we're by the sea, and we're together, and that's all I need.'

'All right then, same here. We're with quite a few other people as well,' Andrew observes. 'Isn't that Dad's sergeant over there?'

So it is. Milner and Miss Ashford are just leaving the tea room.

'Edith, you've met my chief superintendent; this is his son, Andrew. This is Edith Ashford.'

'How do you do?'

'And you know Sam Stewart, of course.'

'Of course I do!' Miss Ashford exclaims.

'Miss Ashford was my nurse when I was in hospital last month,' Sam explains to Andrew.

'Oh, yes, Sam, um, Sam has spoken of you! Thank you then, Miss Ashford, for taking such good care of her,' Andrew says, barely managing to stop himself from adding _for me,_ but then going on, 'especially during such an _extremely_ serious illness.'

He sees Sergeant Milner look sharply at him and then at Sam. He sees as well that Miss Ashford is giving him the once-over with a look on her face that has become too familiar to him. _Time to ask some questions_ , he decides.

'I hope that you aren't overextending yourself, Miss Stewart,' says Miss Ashford, turning back to Sam.

'I'm trying _very_ hard not to,' Sam replies, 'and _everyone_ on the police force is helping me.' She tries not to look at Milner, who now looks to be trying just as hard not to laugh. 'Please call me Sam,' she adds.

'Oh, thank you,' Miss Ashford answers in turn, sounding both pleased and a bit startled. She looks at Andrew once more, then looks back at Sam and smiles. 'I'm Edith.'

* * *

'The reason I was surprised,' Edith tells Milner as they make their way through the crowds, 'is that there _was_ a serviceman who visited Miss Stewart – Sam, I mean – almost every day while she was really ill – but he was American! And a private, if I recall rightly. And then, I remember, after she was out of danger he came to see her one more time, and then he stopped.'

'I think I know the man you mean,' Milner says. 'I saw him several times at the station – he would come by to collect Sam at the end of the day. My guess is that that was... an aberration of some sort on Sam's part. The natural order of things,' he goes on, putting his arm through Edith's, 'seems to have been restored.'

* * *

'Sam,' Andrew begins after the waitress has taken their order and warned them that there is neither sugar nor treacle for the tea, 'I've promised you that I'll never lie to you again, and I'll do my very best to keep that promise. But fair is fair. There's something _I_ need to know.'

Sam nods. She starts to finger a spot where the tablecloth has been mended.

'I know I cut you loose in April, Sam, and you had every right... ' Andrew trails off and then begins again. 'Sergeant Orloff on Tuesday, and a couple of your friends last night, and Miss Ashford just now, all looked at me... as though they were expecting to see someone else – not me. May I please know why? Just... just so that I _will_ know?'

'The Americans who are stationed here now are sappers,' Sam begins after noticing that the mend is beautifully done, _far better than anything I could do,_ she thinks. 'They're building a base at Hawthorne Cross. It's a farm, and the farmer wasn't best pleased about his land being requisitioned. Apparently when the 215th Engineering Company turned up he came at them with a shotgun.'

 _'Cripes!_ Just a hearty Sussex welcome for our allies, I suppose.'

'The next day their commanding officer came to the police station to ask your father for his help. Captain Kieffer. A nice man - he and your father have become friends, I think. And then one of the captain's men arrived to drive him back to their billet.'

'When was this, Sam?'

'The middle of April – the 16th or 17th, I think.'

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

'Joe came to see me several times while I was in hospital,' Sam is saying, 'including once when I was _really_ in a bad way – delirious, probably – at any rate, I thought he was you. I tried to say your name but I was too weak to make even a sound. When I realised that it _was_ Joe I was so... _mortified_ that I simply closed my eyes and waited for him to leave. He didn't come again until after Dr Brindley had given me the streptomycin. That was when I told him that I couldn't accept his proposal, and the thing is, he didn't seem surprised at all.'

'On Tuesday night, after you told me how ill you'd been, I dreamt that I tried to go to the hospital to see you and they wouldn't let me in,' Andrew tells her quietly.

Sam takes his hand behind the shelter of the tablecloth.

' _I've_ had a couple of dreams this week about you coming to see me there,' she replies.

She is silent for a moment and then adds, 'I _wanted_ it to be _you._ '

* * *

'I didn't want to bring this up where people could hear us talking,' Sam says when they are safely back in the Morris, 'but I was wondering about something,'

'What will I do if our friends at Hill House come calling again – is that what you were going to ask?' Andrew replies.

'Yes, that's it exactly.'

'I've thought about that. I don't know. I can only hope that they _won't.'_

Once again they hear the sound of aeroplanes in the sky, ahead of them, this time coming from the north.

' _Those_ are Spitfires,' Sam observes.

'They are. Good for you, Sam, knowing that!'

'There are _plenty_ of girls now who can recognise a Spitfire,' Sam informs him. 'When you were flying ops I used to watch whenever I saw any of them in the air to see if I could find yours.' They are silent for a moment, watching the aircraft – a dozen of them this time. Then Sam asks in a small voice, 'Are we going to _win_ the war?'

'That's another thing that I don't know,' Andrew replies.

* * *

Mrs Hardcastle has gone to the pictures with a friend, and Felicity, in open defiance of the landlady's rules, is stretched out on the sitting-room divan nursing the last remnant of her hangover.

The wireless has been on, but Helen, who seems rather out of sorts, switches it off when some sort of 'dreadful fluffy music,' as she puts it, begins to play.

'Where's _The Times_?' Penelope asks.

'I've got it,' says Sam.

'Read it to us, won't you, please?'

 _'All_ of it?' Sam asks.

'Oh – well, no, but you might pick an interesting article and read that.'

Sam begins looking at the headlines.

'Well, _here's_ something. "New Calls on Women for War Work – Comb-Out of Younger Classes Likely."'

'Yes, I heard about that!' Penelope exclaims. 'As young as eighteen, my section officer says!'

'And it _won't_ be the way it was for us, joining up at the start of the war, either,' Helen predicts darkly. 'I'll wager these new girls won't have _any_ choice about what branch they join or where they're sent! And _you'll_ be called up now, Felicity.'

'I'm a _midwife_ , _'_ Felicity protests. 'What in Heaven's name would the His Majesty's Government want _me_ to do?'

'Look after land girls or something of that sort, probably,' Penelope offers. 'That might not be so terrible, really. What else is in the paper, Sam?'

Sam doesn't answer immediately. _Not this one_ , she thinks:

 **WARNING TO LABOUR  
PARTY MEMBERS  
**–––––  
AVOID ASSOCIATIONS WITH  
COMMUNISTS

She turns the paper to the next page, folding it so that the previous page can't be seen.

'Oh, yes,' she exclaims, 'look at this! "U.S. Women for War Work – Six Millions by End of 1943 – Doubling the Forces."'

'Six millions by the end of next year!' Helen exclaims.

'And it says here that there's to be _no_ conscription of women in the U.S. – they'll _all_ be volunteers,' Sam goes on. 'Calling women up is simply _too_ controversial over there, apparently.'

'But six _millions!_ What will they all _do?'_ Helen demands.

'The same as we do – help the fighting men – only it'll be _their_ fighting men,' Penelope replies.

'Do you suppose they'll do any of the helping overseas?' wonders Felicity.

'I don't see why they shouldn't. Girls in the British forces are being sent overseas,' Penelope says.

'MTC drivers have been serving abroad,' Sam points out.

'What I mean is, do you think any of them will be sent _here?'_ Felicity explains. She has moved tentatively into a sitting position. 'It's just that, now that we've all met some American chaps, I think it would be interesting to meet some American girls. I wonder what they're like.'

'Probably all terribly _fast,_ like their brethren,' Helen replies with a small frown, 'as Sam can no doubt tell us – Glenda as well, if she were here.'

' _Helen,'_ Penelope chides her, making a sound somewhere between a whisper and a hiss. _'Really_ – just because _we're_ having a nice, quiet Saturday night at home while Glenda has gone out! We'll all have to bear with our Helen tonight,' she says to the room, 'as she seems to have got up on the _wrong_ side of the bed this morning.'

Once again Sam doesn't reply at first, her eye having fallen on another headline:

 **CZECH CLERGY PUT  
TO DEATH  
**–––––  
"AID FOR HEYDRICH'S  
MURDERERS"

'That's all right,' she says absently to Penelope. Then she abruptly closes the paper, stands up and says, 'Will you please excuse me? I think I'm going to make an early night of it.'

* * *

Sam has discarded the black ribbon she tied around Andrew's letters. His photograph is back in its proper place.

She has found another photograph as well, of the two of them when they were first walking out together at the end of 1940. She is startled now at how young they both look in it.

* * *

 **Author's note:  
** All of the newspaper articles referenced here were published in _The Times'_ issue of Saturday, September 5th, 1942, on pages 2 or 3.


	18. Chapter 18

SUNDAY 6 SEPTEMBER

In the morning Sam goes to both Communion and Matins for the first time since leaving Lyminster. After lunch she agonises over whether or not to put on her uniform and pin up her hair.

 _This is Sunday. I'm off-duty,_ she thinks.

 _On the other hand I'll be delivering a serviceman to his post, driving a police vehicle borrowed for that purpose._

 _On yet a third hand the last time Andrew and I were together at the airfield I_ was _in uniform and nothing but trouble came after that._

 _But I was saying good-bye to him then. This isn't the same at all. In some ways it's the opposite. And we're in the war together. We're part of the war effort, both of us – even if the war effort hasn't always treated us well._

 _We'd never even have met, if not for this war._

She opens the door of the wardrobe. The white-and-blue dress presents itself, but she reaches for her uniform instead.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

'Sam, do you – ooh, look at _you!'_ Glenda exclaims. 'What's this, then? On duty on the week-end?'

'After a manner of speaking,' Sam replies. 'I'm going to use a police vehicle to take Andrew to his new posting this afternoon – or back to his _old_ posting, if you like. _And_ I'd like to see if being in uniform will work for me as it does for you!'

'Do you have a moment before you need to leave?'

'Yes, why?'

'I saw Corporal Farnetti having an evening out yesterday,' says Glenda after hesitating for an instant.

'There's no reason why he shouldn't, is there?'

'No, I don't suppose there is! Or really, of course there isn't! The _interesting_ thing, though, is that I rather think I recognised the girl he was escorting.'

* * *

'What time is it now?' Andrew asks.

'Not even four o'clock – I mean sixteen hundred,' Sam corrects herself. 'You have more than two hours before you're due to report.'

'Ah. All right. That being the case,' he goes on, more cautiously now, 'would either of you mind if I went upstairs for a bit? I left... something unfinished up there.'

This earns him raised eyebrows from his father, but Sam smiles and shakes her head.

 _'I_ don't mind,' she says. 'Do whatever you need to do.'

'Thank you, Sam. I'm sorry, Dad. I'll come back down as soon as I can.'

They are in the sitting room of Mr Foyle's house – Sam as an invited guest, seated on the divan with a cup and saucer in her hands, trying to hide her astonishment.

'Well. Seeing as _that's_ happened,' Mr Foyle says after a moment, tilting his head a bit to indicate the staircase, 'I might as well tell you _now_ instead of waiting until tomorrow that I owe you an apology, Sam.'

Sam's astonishment grows.

'Whatever for, sir?'

'For lying to you. In April you asked me if I'd heard from Andrew and I said that I hadn't. I _didn't_ for a long time, but in fact I'd just had a letter from him a day or two before that. You can guess what it was about, I suspect. He told me just enough to alarm me and then asked me not to say anything to you. Said he'd write to you himself. And when you asked if I'd heard from him, and then said that _you_ hadn't, I... well, I panicked, and I lied. I'm sorry.'

'I've actually heard a bit about this, sir,' Sam answers slowly. 'No harm done – well, that isn't _quite_ true, I suppose, but no harm that can't be mended, as it turns out. If we'd been in one another's places I suppose I'd have done much the same thing. We'll say no more about it, sir.'

'Thank you, Sam.'

'Sir... I know that it's Sunday and we're not on duty -'

' _You_ appear to be,' Mr Foyle points out.

'Oh – well, after all, part of our remit in the MTC _is_ providing transportation for officials, although usually they're _civilian_ officials. And a friend of mine who's in the A.T.S. says that her uniform opens doors for her. She visited Hawthorne Cross unannounced this week and they simply let her onto the base! So I thought it might be useful to wear mine today – even though this isn't really an official duty.'

'I see. What was it you wanted to tell me?'

'It's about Miss Beaux, sir. My friend Glenda Lyle, who was one of the people who found her injured on Tuesday – she's my friend in the A.T.S. – _may_ have seen her last night. She said that she couldn't be absolutely sure, because she didn't see her head-on, but from what she _did_ see the resemblance was quite striking.'

'But Warrant Officer Lyle didn't attempt to speak to her, I take it.'

'There was no opportunity, sir. They were at the Ruby Cinema. She's now Second Subaltern Lyle, as it happens. Tuesday, when Miss Beaux was injured, was Glenda's last day as a warrant officer.'

Mr Foyle looks impressed by this, or perhaps just interested, Sam isn't sure.

'Was this putative Miss Beaux there on her own?'

'No, sir, she was with someone.' Sam can feel her face growing hot, to her dismay.

'Was her companion recognised?'

'Yes, sir. She was with _Corporal_ Joseph Farnetti. There've been a _lot_ of promotions in Hastings recently,' she adds offhandedly. She stops to take a sip of her tea.

More sentences are forming in her mind. _Actually, sir, I was thinking about Miss Beaux before Glenda mentioned her._

And then, _Do you suppose that if we enquired – if enquiries were made, I mean,_ she corrects herself, _in Leavenham, that anyone there would know anything about her?_

Before she can begin to say them she hears Andrew moving about on the first floor landing.

 _No,_ she thinks.

 _Never, **ever**.  
_

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

'Aren't you going to come with us, sir?'

'Not necessary, Sam,' Mr Foyle answers. 'It's hardly a matter of saying good-bye this time, is it?'

'No, sir, of course it isn't. You're right.'

* * *

Sam has not yet pressed the starter button.

'This is for you,' Andrew tells her, handing her an envelope. 'I began it on Monday, after I'd got back here and was waiting for Dad to come home at the end of the day. I couldn't come up with anything after the second line. After Thursday, though... a dam broke, I suppose. I'm not sure if it's any good, but it's the first thing I've written in almost a year. I went upstairs to finish making a clean copy.'

Sam starts to withdraw the envelope's contents, then looks almost shyly at Andrew.

'Shall I read it now, or keep it for later?'

'Later, I think. When you've gone back to your billet.'

'All right.' She puts the envelope into one of her tunic pockets, taking something from the pocket as she does so. 'I have something for you as well,' she says. 'I found this on Thursday night.' She hands him a photograph of the two of them, both in uniform as they are now, Christmas decorations visible in the background.

 _1940_ , Andrew thinks. _Not even two years ago._

'Look at how _young_ we were!' he exclaims.

'That's _exactly_ what I thought when I found that.'

Sam's tone of voice has changed, making Andrew look back at her. Worry lines just large enough for him to see have appeared on her forehead. He slips the photograph into his own pocket and takes her hand.

'We're going to be all right this time, sweetheart,' he tells her, suddenly as serious as she is. 'I know that I said that last time and I couldn't have been more wrong, but this time we're going to be _more_ than all right. You _do_ believe that, don't you?'

'Of course I do. It isn't that.'

'What, then?'

'While I was talking to your father a few minutes ago I realised that we're _still_ keeping a secret from him, and this one really _must_ be kept.'

'Does this have to do with... ?'

'Your... visits to Czechoslovakia in May.' The way she puts it makes him smile, but she remains somber.

She tells him about Miss Beaux and the missing persons report, her thought that the woman might be attached to the S.O.E., Glenda's possible sighting of Miss Beaux at the pictures last night, her own sudden impulse to share her idea with Andrew's father.

'I nearly gave you away just now. I'm sorry, Andrew.'

'But Miss Beaux has nothing at all to do with me.'

'True, but your father would have wondered why it even occurred to me. And that _does_ have to do with you, and he would figure that out at some point, just as he guessed the truth about us last year.'

'You're right,' Andrew admits. 'And you're also right that I'd _much_ rather Dad never know about that... entanglement. So thank you, Sam. And _I'm_ sorry – I _never_ meant to give you a burden to carry! Perhaps I oughtn't to have told you about it after all.'

'Of _course_ you ought to have told me!' says Sam, becoming more animated. 'We're sitting here now, having this conversation, _because_ of what you told me! No,' she goes on. 'We're a team, you and I. We'll protect each other.'

Andrew is still holding Sam's hand. He presses it to his creek.

'It's mostly been _you_ protecting _me,_ Sam,' he tells her, 'by keeping my secrets, by not giving up on me, even just by worrying about me, I think. What am I going to do to protect _you?_ What _can_ I do?'

'You can remember that I love you, and that I _haven't_ given up on you,' Sam replies, smiling a bit and sounding both hesitant and as though she has been waiting to say this, 'and that I'm not the only person who _does_ worry about about you. Don't give up on _me,_ for that matter. Don't give up on... _anything,_ actually. Oh, and you can keep _my_ secrets,' she adds. 'That ought to do it, I think, at least for the time being.'

'I'll give it my utmost, I promise you. Dad _does_ know that you told me about the anthrax,' he admits. 'I ought to have told that before now. On Wednesday night I was sitting about feeling a bit sorry for myself and I asked him, amongst other things, where the streptomycin came from. If _you've_ been wondering, he got it from Army Intelligence – by means perhaps not entirely becoming to an officer of the law. Best not to say anything more about _that,_ I think.'

That does the trick. Sam laughs.

'I probably ought to add, as well, that I did tell Dad that I told _you_ about... my recent history,' Andrew goes on. ' _He_ still knows almost nothing about it.'

'A good thing that I didn't say anything more about Miss Beaux, then,' Sam notes, nodding.

'Yes. She's on her own, I'm afraid.'

'If we don't start moving your father's going to look out the window and wonder why we're still here, and then we'll have to explain _that,'_ says Sam as she presses the starter button.

* * *

Between petrol rationing and the fact that this is Sunday the roads are all but empty. In Crowhurst Road they are briefly joined by another car. The only vehicle they encounter coming from the direction of the airbase is a bicycle ridden by Glenda. Without slowing down she somehow manages to come to attention and offer a salute, which Andrew returns.

* * *

Sam slowly moves the Wolseley past the gate and onto the base. A guard appears slightly alarmed at first by the approach of a police car, but then salutes Andrew and points at a place where Sam can park.

'What time is it now?' Andrew asks.

'Seventeen forty – and we're _here_. You're not even _close_ to being late. Is it the same as it was?' Sam goes on as Andrew takes in the base.

Buildings have appeared where tents once stood. Some of the open spaces that Andrew remembers have been filled in with what look like barracks. They are all undoubtedly those factory-made structures that have been put up all over the country, ready to be disassembled and removed when no longer needed. Even so, the base has taken on the look of something intended for the long haul.

Wing Commander Turner appears unchanged other than being noticeably greyer than he was eighteen months ago. Palgrave is talking Turner's ear off and looking, Andrew thinks, very much like the cat that got into the cream. Chatto is standing by quietly, having arrived by bicycle, his duffle bag lashed to the rear rack.

By the time she and Andrew exit the car Palgrave is on his way to greet them.

'You surprise me, Foyle – last to show up on your own patch!' he booms. 'But look _here,'_ he goes on, turning to Sam, 'it's the lovely girl in the pin-up! Quite a distraction _you_ must be, what?'

'This is Section Cadet Officer Samantha Stewart, sir,' Andrew says stiffly.

Sam stands at attention and salutes Palgrave. She does not ask him to call her Sam.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

There is a retreat back into the car, a promise that Andrew will telephone on Thursday if not earlier, a discussion of plans for next week-end, a silence during which Sam and Andrew simply gaze at one another, a lingering kiss and then another.

It is nearly 1800 hours.

Andrew leaves the car, goes round to the back, pulls his duffle out of the back seat, and makes his way to Turner's office to report for duty. Sam waits until she sees the building's door shut behind him. At first she makes no move to leave, lost in thought about the events of the past week.

She has moved very quickly from a sort of very quiet terror through anger and indecision to relief and joy.

 _Not without some some cost, though,_ she thinks. _I have very many secrets to keep now, and I've got to keep one of them from Mr Foyle – and from everyone else as well, but especially from Mr Foyle._

 _I wonder if this is the sort of thing that Dad and Mother and Uncle Aubrey were really thinking of when they worried that the war would corrupt me._

She realizes that the guard who showed her where to put the car is looking pointedly in her direction. She offers an apologetic smile, presses the starter button, puts the car into gear, moves it off of the base and begins the drive back to Hastings.

Along the way she remembers something that Andrew had written to her a few weeks after he'd gone to Debden. When she is back in her room at Mrs Hardcastle's, even before she opens the envelope that Andrew has just given her, she looks thought the packet from last year and finds the letter:

 _There was a colossal wind storm here last night. HQ and a couple of other buildings sustained some damage, and a very large tree was simply blown over, completely uprooted. It got particularly bad just before 2400, and as I lay in my bunk listening to the wind howl I wondered how many of the other chaps were thinking of their best girls. I know that I was thinking of mine. Someday, Sam, you and I will ride out such a storm together; we'll keep tight hold of one another, and even in a whirlwind neither one of us will blow away._

...

 _ **FINIS**_ _  
_

 _(At least for the time being. Sam still has those letters to write, after all.)_


End file.
